


Part One: Coda

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bereaved after Christine's departure with Raoul, Erik finds himself confronted with and his destructive behaviour challenged by a woman who is trying to come to terms with a tragedy of her own. Erik/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

Prologue:

 

The kerosene lamps burned brightly despite the earliness of the hour on the topmost floor of a grey sandstone building in the _Rue de Vaugirard_. Heavy, black curtains hung from the windows, prohibiting even the smallest ray of sunshine to permeate the room.

With a surprising disregard to the full length mirror that was covered in a similarly dark fabric, a young woman was busy dressing herself. She had successfully assembled her undergarments and petticoat but struggled impatiently with the rest of the dress which, too, consisted of simple, black bombazine. At last, a knock on the door stilled her fingers and caused her to turn around.

"Who is it?" she called with a tired voice.

"It's me, Madame."

A sigh of resignation passed over her lips as she glanced around the room one last time before striding to the door to open it. A greying woman curtsied and welcomed her with a warm smile.

"The carriage is waiting for you in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Babette. I will just be a moment."

Habit caused her to walk back into the room and towards the mirror in front of which she realised her mistake. Huffing impatiently, she tried smoothing her dress down over her hips but the stiff material of her petticoat refused to comply.

"Permit me to help you, Madame?" Babette's voice came from the doorway and reluctantly she nodded her approval.

There were several things Julianne Doucet had needed to get used to over the course of the past year. Continuing to be addressed as "Madame" when the man who had elevated her from girl to woman had passed away suddenly, and tolerating the urge to scream whenever this occasion arose, was one. Requiring more help than usual when it came to dressing herself was another. Some days she wondered if the mirrors had been covered out of respect for the deceased or to spare her the confrontation with her helpless reflection.

"Would you like your cloak, Madame?" Babette inquired, once her tireless hands had stopped adjusting her dress.

"Yes, thank you." Julianne replied, retrieving her purse from a nearby table. "I will fasten it myself."

"As you wish," Babette curtsied a second time and passed her the cloak with a soft, understanding look that caused Julianne to hurriedly avert her eyes.

If only grief could be a private matter, not one that constantly begged to be doted on or wished to be carried by unknowing third parties.

Fastening the cloak around her neck, she straightened her spine and determinedly walked out of the room and down the stairs into the courtyard. The domestic staff in her employ bowed as she passed and Alexandre, her late husband's trusted driver, helped her into the carriage. He took great care ensuring she was comfortable before closing the door and climbing to his seat at the front.

As the vehicle slowly pulled out of the courtyard, Julianne realised just how gloomy the house had been in contrast to the bright but cool sunlight that felt almost penetrating on this autumn day. With another heavy sigh, she loosened the veil that was attached to her bonnet and lowered it over her eyes to shield herself. No matter how many months she'd had the time to prepare herself for the occasion, it just did not seem to get any easier. The carefree smiles of strangers in the streets were still as offensive to her as they had been a year ago, as were their voices penetrating.

Unfortunately, it was the grand premiere of the new season at the _Palais Garnier_ and she felt a strict obligation to attend. The part of her which yearned to burrow away from the pitying eyes of the masses, she tried to soothe by reminding herself that Édouard would have wanted her to leave the house.

Always the more outgoing of the two, he had loved to entertain and frequently coaxed her out of her shell and introduced her to the various social circles she now belonged to. His loss was felt by many, she knew, and his gregarious nature was, no doubt, the reason behind the flood of condolence letters that washed up daily at the house.

The memories, no matter how fond, created a fresh surge of emotion that seemed potent enough to drown her, and gasping for air, she redirected her gaze to the outside world which, until that moment, had been completely passing her by. Now, as her eyes clung on to buildings and people, she realised that they had made steady progress, leaving the 6th arrondissement behind and exchanging the _Jardin du Luxembourg_ for the _Jardin des Tuileries._ Only a little bit further and they would join the trickle of carriages and omnibuses on the _Avenue de l'Opéra_. A few more minutes then to gather her composure before she would be exposed to the scrutiny of the masses for the first time since her late husband's funeral.

Not ever had the sight of Apollo's looming statue filled her with such dread.

With a growing lump in her throat, she waited until the final distance was bridged. When the carriage at last came to a halt, Alexandre opened the door for her and offered his gloved hand in assistance. Accepting it, she tilted her chin up proudly and joined the throng of people already streaming towards the entrance.

She was desperate to make her way to her box as quickly as possible, but it wasn't long before recognition struck and the murmur of voices around her began to swell. Undoubtedly, she wasn't the only widow present but perhaps no-one else quite matched her standing or prominence. When her late husband's name filled the air around her, she picked up her skirts and started striding up the grand staircase, a rather undignified manner of conducting oneself, of course, but the urge to flee was overwhelming. Behind every corner, another memory seemed to be lurking, following her trace like a ghost.

"Ah Madame Doucet!"

Somewhat breathless, she stopped in front of the small man who had greeted her so fondly.

"Monsieur Moreau," she replied dutifully and accepted his outstretched hand. A smile, she failed to muster.

"We were all delighted to hear you'd be in attendance today."

"I wouldn't miss the season premiere." She told him.

Around them, groups of people formed and then disbanded again, after having spent a socially acceptable amount of time observing her and trying to snap up snippets of information.

"I trust everything is well taken care of?"

"Of course!" Monsieur Moreau hurried to re-assure her, puffing out his rather generous chest. "We have found a reliable cast that have the skills of covering most roles in the upcoming operas. It saves costs, naturally, and could lead to higher audience numbers if they take a shine to a particular singer who they know will re-appear in a different piece."

"Very business-minded," Julianne praised him dutifully, "it is a relief to know the Opera is in such capable hands."

"You flatter me. Permit me to walk you to your box?"

Her features smooth and neutral, Julianne nodded her agreement. It would have been rude to deny him, after everything he had done for her.

Originally Édouard's bookkeeper, he had stepped in to secure financial matters at the _Palais Garnier_ when Julianne had found herself alone with a business she didn't know how to run. It had been him who had reassured her that he would handle all creative decisions also, since he was well enough connected to draw in favours and receive support. The fact that the Opera was still afloat after a whole year was a testament to his abilities, Julianne thought, and yet she couldn't deny that there was something unsettling about the confident manner with which he appeared to carry himself. But she simply didn't possess the energy to voice her reservations.

When she finally reached her box and Monsieur Moreau took his leave, she heaved a deep sigh of relief. Soon, the lights would dim and she could let down her guard, safe in the knowledge that no-one would be able to watch her.

She busied herself, thumbing through the program Moreau had pressed into her hand, if only to remind herself that the opera she'd be seeing tonight was _Robert le Diable._ If sat beside her, Édouard would have wrinkled his nose, no doubt. This realisation threatened to bring laughter as well as tears, and so she hurriedly set the program aside and fixed her eyes on the curtain until the thrum of voices in the auditorium grew, the lights flickered and the performance began.

Her head was too full to allow her to pay much attention to the happenings on the stage but the music was pleasant enough to pacify some of the pain in her chest. One act slipped fluently into the next until close to the intermission strange sounds began to arise.

At first, Julianne had attributed them to the performance where the set had shifted to a cave and a ritualistic scene. Some fresh, albeit bold creative choice, Julianne had thought. But then the sounds had welled up all around her. Quiet and threatening at first, as if whispered directly into her ear, then loud and booming, echoing, bouncing off the walls around her. The sounds were deafening, inhuman; a screeching and clawing she would not have believed possible.

Panic rose in her throat and made her palms slick with sweat. But she was not losing her mind for all around her people had begun to whisper, craning their necks for the source of all the racket.

When the sounds at last became so loud that the orchestra hesitantly stopped playing, everything died down. And then triumphant laughter took its place; giddy, ecstatic but undoubtedly _mad_.

The heat left her body as quickly as it had come and instead cold shivers took hold of her.

Beneath her, the audience had started to scatter. Some of them looking just as frightened as she, herself, felt, others walking at a leisurely pace, disgruntled, punishing words on their tongue.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Moreau had bravely taken to the stage.

"We beg your forgiveness. Unfortunately, tonight's performance cannot go ahead but we invite you to attend an additional performance this Sunday afternoon. Please consult the ushers for a more thorough explanation. Thank you."

In the box, Julianne narrowed her eyes, displeased with the way the matter had been handled.

Clutching her purse under her arm, she lifted her dress and hurriedly strode towards the manager's office in which Monsieur Moreau had no doubt holed himself up. A knock on the door, coupled with a curt reply from inside confirmed her suspicions and she swiftly entered the room.

"Madame Doucet!" he exclaimed, possessing the good grace to look shocked at least. "I do apologise."

"And so you should," she told him squarely, "what a ridiculous display. Surely we must be able to handle ourselves better in the face of such mishaps."

It didn't escape her that her statement made him look even more uneasy.

"Has the _Sûreté_ been informed? We must apprehend whoever it was that caused the disruption."

"I whole-heartedly agree." Monsieur Moreau replied firmly, yet he was unable to meet her eyes.

"Well then?" she demanded, taking another step closer to the oak desk that separated them.

"It's just…I daresay that would be quite impossible."

"Impossible how?"

In response, he rose from his chair and stiffly began pacing up and down.

"It is nothing, Madame, truly. Everything will be taken care of."

"You are wasting my time, Moreau. What aren't you telling me?"

Weariness and impatience hardened her voice.

"I had thought nothing of it…You see, everything had been quiet for more than a year. Perhaps a hoax I had thought but then tonight…" He swallowed and turned to face her, his arms crossed in front of his chest as if bracing himself for whatever he needed to say next. "It was the Opera Ghost, Madame Doucet. Perhaps you understand now why I didn't inform the _Sûreté_."

Julianne lowered both her palms on the desk between them and pensively studied the man she had always known to be calm and rational. Had she not witnessed the events herself, however, she would have begun to question his sanity.

"I see," she eventually remarked coolly, "perhaps you ought to tell me more."

One ghost in her life was more than enough.


	2. A Spot of Tea

Chapter 1:

In box 5, the Opera Ghost reclined in his armchair, his hands neatly folded in his lap. It could have been minutes or hours since the orchestra had played the final chord of Meyerbeer's mediocre _Robert le Diable,_ but time was a concept that hardly mattered to him. What was of more pressing importance was that silence had fallen at last. Blissful silence, undisturbed by this hateful music that could penetrate the walls of even the fifth cellar.

Slowly, he unfurled his legs and leaned forward to survey the empty space. There would be more performances, he knew, after all it was the building's rightful role to birth one opera after the other.

Did it ever tire of the same old spectacle? The gossiping ballet girls, the nervous managers, the incompetent singers?

He certainly did which put him at an impasse since his house was situated beneath it all. But like any strong-willed ruler trapped in a stalemate, he was prepared to undermine his opponent until they would grant him peace at last.

His eyes slid from the deserted seats to the grand chandelier that loomed ominously over the dark auditorium. Beneath the white mask, his lips curled into a smirk. Exquisite, exhilarating life throbbed in his veins.

Oh, the _possibilities_!

Though the chandelier truly was too grand and too predictable given the events of the previous year, and that just wouldn't do. He had always been an extraordinarily gifted ghost and wasn't about to start making silly mistakes now.

After another moment's worth of fascinated study of the new chandelier, he directed his gaze towards the centre of the stage where a peculiar little man had offered flimsy excuses to the public not very long ago. His whole demeanour had been anything but convincing, and it bordered on a miracle that the irate mob had not lynched him on the spot. Now that would have been a spectacle worth watching! But as it was, the little man had made a hasty escape before any of the few remaining hairs on his balding head could have been touched.

Patience, as they said, was a virtue so for now a simple letter would suffice, just enough to serve as a reminder of the Ghost's presence.

Satisfied with his plans, he rose from the comfortable armchair and touched the hidden stone that opened up the nearby column for him. Without a second glance, he disappeared into the crammed, dark space and followed the familiar passageway down to the fifth cellar beneath the stage. The further he descended, the moister the air around him became until at last the walls that flanked him broadened into a large exit. Beyond it, a lake glistened serenely in the dark. The cave-like structure echoed his steps until he came to a standstill in front of the pillar he had moored his boat at. The rope was tied firmly and at first escaped the loosening attempts of his stiff fingers. Joints aching in protest he finally succeeded and climbed into the vessel, using firm strokes to push away from the shore. The lamp that was attached to the other end, swayed in a steady rhythm, throwing peculiar shadows on the walls around him.

The passage was quite peaceful and offered enough time to entertain his mind with a selection of phrases he could direct at the new manager. But whatever fleeting satisfaction he felt was short-lived when his house came into view and with it the figure of a man.

"Erik!" the man exclaimed impatiently when he was certain he was within earshot. "Where have you been?"

Erik took his time rowing the rest of the way and fastening his boat, before he directed his attention towards the unwanted intruder. "Out."

"You have a way of stating the obvious." The man remarked dryly, annoyance etched onto his face.

"It is the just reply to an obvious question." Erik returned amusedly before his features grew serious. "And really, Daroga, where I wish to go and how I choose to conduct myself is none of your concern."

"I wish you'd stop seeing my questions as a personal attack. You have not left this house in over a year, noticing your sudden absence I was naturally concerned."

"You have a talent, Nadir." Erik remarked with a grave chuckle, passing the man and entering his house. "That almost sounded sincere."

"I do believe I have proven my loyalty to you by now." Nadir replied decidedly. "Not only did I help you in Mazandaran but I also tended to you every day after she left."

Though _she_ remained nameless, a sudden tension gripped Erik's body which didn't escape his friend. Shrugging the remark as well as the woman off, Erik produced a snort of derision and passed through the rubble and debris that had once been his sitting room.

"The morphine isn't doing you any favours, Erik, and I am an old man."

But this, too, seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Tea?" Erik offered instead in a manner that was infuriating in its cordiality.

Nadir gave a nod of resignation and weaved his way through the path of broken objects to clear a spot on the black leather sofa that looked a little worse for wear but was otherwise unharmed. He brushed some dust away and decided for a change of tactic, while the masked man stubbornly kept his back to him.

"I really am pleased that you decided to venture outside," he began carefully, "and was merely curious what brought on this surge of energy."

In truth, it had come as a bit of a shock to find the bedroom deserted, since he had lacked the strength to leave it for over a year. At first, Erik had only confined himself to his house, reluctant to leave since he feared missing the delivery of Christine's wedding invitation. But when the appropriate period of time had come and passed, he'd grown restless and angry.

In the aftermath of her betrayal, he began tearing down the furniture and objects that had once made up his home. His rage knew no bounds and even when it had finally evaporated, leaving him a broken man, Nadir had received clear instructions not to touch anything or tidy up the chaos that had been created.

The rest of the time had been ruled by his morphine addiction, growing dosages making him even more temperamental and unpredictable. He'd barely eaten, reluctantly accepted the water that was offered to him and prepared himself for a death that seemed imminent thanks to a turn for the worse of his heart condition.

Some days, Nadir had feared he would arrive at the house to find his corpse.

Talking to him in this eloquent if also infuriating manner, let alone walking, had seemed impossible. Yet owing to their long-lasting friendship, Nadir's gut instinct told him that it couldn't have been something positive that had brought about this odd mood. No, whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

"The opera," Erik gestured before adding leaves to the infuser, "dreadful Meyerbeer nearly drove me out of my mind." He turned with a deep and heavy sigh and although his face was hidden beneath the mask, the exasperation in his tone was prominent enough. "After all this time, I had really hoped they'd come to their senses. As it turns out, my Opera is under new management yet again. Did you know that, Daroga?"

Nadir knew better than to take the question at its innocent face value. The years had taught him to become attuned to the dangerous notes that lurked in Erik's compelling voice. No answer he'd give would be deemed satisfactory.

"I had read something about the former managers' departure, yes, but hadn't found it worth troubling you with."

"Of course." His voice was soft but his eyes remained hard. "You are too considerate."

Nadir's hand balled into a fist, but somehow he succeeded in remaining expressionless. Erik really was going too far, but a confrontation could wait until he had unearthed more details.

"I presume you hardly forced yourself to tolerate the performance?" he proceeded, not trying to hide his annoyance.

"Of course not. That would be preposterous! How does one even tolerate such a curse?"

His answer filled the room with possibilities, and Nadir knew all too well that he possessed a rather gruesome creativity when it came to retaliation.

Shifting uncomfortably, he accepted the tea cup handed to him. Erik, on the other hand, remained standing and appeared to be scanning the room for something in particular. Perhaps the blasted cat that usually never left his side.

"Something amiss?" Nadir probed after a moment.

"I don't suppose we have any brandy left?"

"Bottles rarely survive immense destruction, my friend." Nadir commented dryly while Erik sank down on the couch next to him with a dramatic flourish.

"What a terrible waste."

"You would not even have the means of making tea, let alone cups to drink out of had I not found you a new set."

"I see we hadn't yet finished listing all your good deeds, Daroga." Erik replied wryly.

"Nor have you offered further explanations as to your actions throughout the opera." Nadir persisted patiently.

"It hardly matters how I did it…Just know that I found a way to stop that dreadful music. You know I can be rather…persuasive if I want to be."

"So it is as I feared…" Nadir muttered under his breath, clinging to his tea cup as to his last shreds of sanity.

"You really musn't concern yourself. The opera was stopped and you'll be pleased to hear that nobody was harmed. Now all that's left to do is send the current management a little reminder of my presence."

"Erik, please, have you not seen reason? I thought you might finally appreciate this gift of a second chance Miss Daaé has given you?"

Erik rose to his feet again, slowly and stiffly, as if every movement caused him great difficulty.

"Perhaps it is time you left. You look rather tired and…as you rightfully noted, you are an old man."

Nadir took another sip of his tea before Erik's insistence drove him upright.

"I apologise if my words upset you," he said slowly, setting his cup down on the armrest, "but I won't be playing this game with you. Denying her existence or the courage she has shown you will not help you stop grieving."

"I won't ask you a second time, Daroga."

His tone was grave and although he kept his back to him, Nadir could see that his bony hands that were clutching the broken edges of his pipe organ, had started to tremble.

"You have chosen to build your house beneath an Opera. Even you can't silence the music forever."

When Nadir passed him to reach the exit that would allow him to emerge in the _Rue Scribe,_ Erik turned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"How very naïve of you. Surely you must know me better by now."

Beneath the mask, the Opera Ghost was undoubtedly smiling, and the tremors that had gripped his hands mere minutes ago had vanished altogether.


	3. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos are much appreciated! Thank you!

Chapter 2:

The manager's office seemed to possess a life of its own. At least that's what Julianne found when she barricaded herself in the room at the beginning of the following week. Correspondences found in the drawers of the big oak desk reminded her of the kind but decisive nature of her husband, while notes unearthed by Monsieur Moreau shed some light on the ghost story she had involuntarily found herself in. Whether Édouard had known anything about this affair was impossible to say, since neither one of the curious notes was dated.

Resting her chin on her hand, Julianne directed her gaze outside the window. It was doubtful he would have been involved in anything deviant, because he had taken this new position rather seriously. But she knew all too well that his imagination was easily captured by fantastical worlds and happenings, and perhaps this ghost had been exciting enough to awaken his childlike curiosity and abandon all caution. Hoping to find answers, she now found herself confronted with more questions that seemed to clog up her already overfull mind. Had she not felt some sense of duty to Édouard's business endeavour, she would have been more comfortable at home.

Every day she discovered another tint of grey in this spectrum of grief. Numbness and tears while seemingly at odds with each other, appeared in brief succession, while a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread startled her awake at night and had her reaching for the empty side of the bed. There was no let-up, no space for anything but this gaping hole in her life, and yet here she was, clawing at some illusive sense of focus and trying to solve this mystery she had unwillingly become a part of.

Édouard would have wanted to find answers, she told herself while rubbing her tired eyes. It was a mantra that carried her to the office doors.

She opened them so sharply that a nearby group of ballet girls startled and almost instinctively began to scatter.

"Would one of you be so kind as to fetch Monsieur Moreau?" Julianne asked.

The remaining girls exchanged nervous glances and then hesitantly nodded. She didn't stay behind to hear their whispered words but quickly withdrew into the silence of the office once more. The minutes ticked by slowly until a polite knock indicated Moreau's arrival.

"Do come in!" she called, though her voice seemed to crack under the sudden strain of making itself heard.

Monsieur Moreau looked as uncomfortable as he had done when she had last seen him after the misfortunate events at the premiere of _Robert le Diable._ Even now he could hardly bring himself to meet her eyes which only strengthened her belief that he had been hoping to avoid her.

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Well, first of all I wanted to thank you for both the reports you offered me last week and the notes you have left behind on the desk." She began, relying on her old etiquette lessons that had taught her that, when in doubt, cordiality could open more doors.

"Of course," he indicated an awkward little bow, "I have always aspired to help you and Monsieur Doucet."

"And I was hoping," she quickly intervened, for the man had already turned towards the door again, "that you would be able to assist me further by answering a few questions these notes have brought up."

His displeasure became even more pronounced by the forced smile that suddenly appeared on his face.

"You must think me an expert, Madame."

"I simply value your opinion, Monsieur." She answered sweetly and making sure to hold this new, uncomfortable eye contact, she sank back down in her chair to consult the notes. "Who is Mademoiselle Daaé? Our ghost seems terribly fixated on her."

"She appears to have been a singer, Madame." He answered meekly.

"I had concluded the same," she commented, conscious of the impatience that was starting to show in her tone, "but forgive me for being vague. I meant to inquire if she is currently still employed here?"

"No," he shook his head and for the first time she felt he was being genuine, "I haven't encountered her but I can't say I know where she went either."

"I see," Julianne hummed disappointedly, pinching the bridge of her nose, "in that case perhaps it is best if we consult the rest of the _corps_. There is bound to be someone who has been in our employ long enough to recognise that name."

All at once, Monsieur Moreau's obvious unease returned but Julianne made a point to ignore it. Instead, she locked away the notes and marched past him and out of the office.

All the ballet girls had dispersed by now, but it hardly mattered since Julianne was certain that she would find them along with the rest of the ensemble on the main stage.

She swiftly strode through the deserted hallway and gained access to the fly tower of the Opera via a backdoor. It was the tallest part of the entire building and one she entered only with nervous respect. It was dark and eerie, filled with seemingly unreachable walkways, rope lines and weights. Unused backdrops were fastened even higher up, a single glance towards the topmost part of the complex enough to make her dizzy so that she hurriedly continued walking towards the sounds of the warming up orchestra.

As expected, everyone she had been hoping to locate had assembled on the stage and was listening to what little praise Monsieur Millet, the chief _répétiteur,_ had to offer about their recent performance. Her sudden appearance had an immediate effect as more and more people started turning their heads in her direction until Millet, at last, was forced to notice her as well.

"Ah Madame Doucet," he addressed her sharply while tapping the score against his leg, "if you have come to watch the rehearsal perhaps you would be more comfortable over here?"

As politely as his impatience would allow him to he pointed to one of the seats in the auditorium.

"How thoughtful," she smiled and curtsied diligently, "but I'm afraid I have come to discuss another matter."

"And I assume it can't wait?" he probed with a sigh of resignation.

"I'm afraid not." She shook her head and turned to address the ensemble. "I am investigating the source for the disruption of Thursday's premiere. Not only was it inconsiderate and a great nuisance, it's also a grave injustice to each and every one of you and the effort you have put into your work."

Surprised murmurs broke the silence and encouraged by the nervous smiles she continued.

"I have learned that this was not the first disturbance of a ghostly nature," she couldn't prevent the dry tone from slipping into her voice, "and I was hoping to speak to someone who might be able to tell me more. Perhaps even someone who knows something about Christine Daaé."

Some ensemble members looked downright shocked, paling instantly and making sure to find a sudden interest in anything but the woman in front of them. Other members, however, simply looked blank or mildly curious but no-one stepped forward or offered a single word of explanation.

"I do apologise for broaching this clearly uncomfortable topic." She tried once again but the reaction largely remained the same.

* * *

"I just don't understand!" she exclaimed later that day while Babette was combing out her hair. "They must hate these interruptions as much as the next person, especially if there's a strange history I am only partially informed about. Why keep whatever information they have a secret?"

"They're frightened, Madame," Babette offered bravely in return, "they don't want to anger the ghost."

"But there is no ghost!" Julianne bristled. "Goodness knows I cannot explain those ungodly sounds I heard, but I have never encountered a ghost that would write letters, let alone demand to keep a box for its exclusive use."

This time, Babette wisely chose to remain silent, focusing instead on a knot in her mistress's hair while Julianne fumbled for the notes by her side. She had decided to take them with her since she feared they might somehow disappear if she left them at the Opera overnight. She did not believe in the ghost, but she did believe in the sneaky little hands of those determined to keep the ghost's secret.

The continued tugs at her hair she barely registered. When a sudden idea struck, she turned around so quickly that Babette startled and yanked a bushel of hair loose.

"You must do me a favour," Julianne announced breathlessly, touching the sore spot at the back of her head and waving off her maid's words of apology, "you must find me some old papers. _Le Figaro_ , no, wait! _Le Petit Journal_ , they must have written something about previous occurrences. They live for material like this!"

Babette looked at her flushed face and swallowed.

"Madame, please, do consider how this…obsession would reflect on you. The world believes you to be in mourning, after all."

Her maid's words deprived her of air and brought the numbed pain in her chest to the forefront.

"Of course," she answered quietly and hurriedly pushed the stack of letters and notes into the topmost drawer of her nightstand, "goodnight, Babette."

The maid nodded and extinguished the nearby lamps and then carefully left the room. Julianne knew that she would fret the whole night over her words and whether or not they had been out of line, and for that she would apologise in the morning. Babette had always been kind and loyal and truly deserved much better, but for now Julianne was unable to escape the darkness in which she had been plunged yet again.

The silence did not allow for sentences or fully-formed thoughts. It was heavy and suffocating, thick enough to settle over her and smother her.

With trembling fingers she felt for the photograph she had hidden beneath Édouard's pillow. The rough edges felt soothing, and she calmed herself by tracing the familiar contours of his face that she needed no light to see. But while soothing, it wasn't enough to fill the void in her heart.

Automatically, her body curled itself up. The photograph remained in her hand while her arms came together over her head to shield her. She felt small and insignificant, vulnerable and exposed to all the expectation society now placed on her.

Why was it not enough to simply _be_?

If only Édouard could have been there to say something outrageous that would make her laugh.


	4. Madame Doucet

Chapter 3:

Being a ghost came with certain advantages. Omniscience, for example. It almost bordered on extraordinary how many secrets the Opera housed and how many of them Erik was aware of.

There was little Meg Giry who appeared to have begun an affair with Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. A scandalous match, of course, since the ballet girl could hardly pass as a member of the bourgeoisie, let alone as someone of higher status. Or Monsieur Millet who seemed unable to oversee a single rehearsal without a gulp from his trusted hip flask. And then there was the curious question as to the current creative leadership of the opera house.

For all intents and purposes that strange, little fellow, Monsieur Moreau, appeared to be in charge, yet for a man of such power he seemed rather concerned that certain occurrences would reach the ear of one Madame Doucet. Erik had watched with some amusement how first his letter had been pocketed and stored out of sight and then instructions had been given to the rest of the ensemble not to breathe a word about the other disrupted performances.

Curious as to what all this fuss was about, Erik had made it his mission to discover more about the woman. An unpredictable pawn could be dangerous for any game of chess and he wasn't in the habit of losing.

It came as a surprise then that the person in question was hardly ever present. Nonetheless, he tirelessly attended every gathering until at last he was rewarded with his first glimpse of her. She was smaller than he had imagined and far more voluptuous, but she walked with a purpose and determination that appeared at odds with the dress she wore which clearly labelled her to be in mourning. But at least it explained her continued absence from the opera house.

Intrigued by her conduct and the ferocity with which she had clearly thrown herself into the investigation of his person, he decided that it was only just for him to reciprocate. Another letter would be in order, but this time he'd make sure she'd receive it.

* * *

The hours between the rehearsal and the evening performance awarded him just enough time to return to his house by the lake and set in motion a series of preparations. Writing paper that wasn't crumpled, ripped or burnt was scarce and he knew that he'd require much more for the correspondences that awaited him in the near future. But even more importantly, there were certain other items he needed for survival, such as a new packet of morphine, a fresh set of dress shirts, waistcoats, dress pants, frocks and cloaks and some caviar for Ayesha.

The feline had taken refuge in the bed of the room that had once belonged to Christine since his coffin had not survived the devastation either. But thanks to his anger the rest of the room was largely unrecognisable as he had burned every thread of female garments in his possession. The delicate writing desk had also met its end against a nearby wall. It was a bitter twist of irony that the only resting place he still had left was the bed he had been born in, the very bed in which he had hoped to find wedded bliss with Christine.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" he greeted the cat which eagerly lifted its head to welcome his touch. "But don't concern yourself, my darling, I shall make sure you are well looked after now."

As if in agreement, Ayesha began to purr. Several minutes he lavished affection on her and entertained himself with her company, but then he reminded himself that valuable time was going to waste.

But how he abhorred reaching out to tedious merchants, how he despised dependency on another human soul!

Nonetheless, it needed to be done.

Reaching for a handful of remaining blank papers that had been haphazardly discarded onto the bedroom's floor, he used a three-legged, wobbly nightstand to scribble two hasty notes. Upon his return to the Opera he would leave them both on the armchair of box 5 where Madame Giry was sure to find them. And if curiosity wouldn't force her to venture there on her own accord, a few whispered words into her ear were sure to do the trusted her to open up only the letter addressed to her and pass the other on to his messenger as requested.

The note for Madame Doucet needed more thought, however.

With the remaining pieces of paper as well as his pen in hand, he paced towards the sitting room. The question that plagued him was how much information he wished to divulge in order to get her attention. It simply wouldn't be suitable to lay everything out just like that. If she wished to know more, the least she could do was put forth more effort. No, all that was needed was the right hook to pique her interest and then he'd simply have to reel her in.

* * *

To his disappointment, Madame Doucet did not attend the evening performance, however. He had not spotted her on the grand staircase, nor had she joined Monsieur Moreau in the manager's box.

This show of tactlessness, when he had gone to such length to prepare for her arrival, was unacceptable. And he'd had quite enough of disobedient females to last him a lifetime. No-one would ever have the gall to disrespect him again. And if she did continue to disappoint, he'd simply have to resort to more drastic measures.

That evening, his fury forced down the curtain before the second act had even begun.

* * *

Not usually a morning person, the restlessness that resided in his bones made sleep impossible and caused him to abandon his lair at the crack of dawn the following day (or so his pocket watch told him). His knees protested at the effort the ascent to the third cellar required of him, but the tingling current that seemed to run through his veins propelled him forward.

From the third cellar, he worked a series of cleverly hidden trapdoors until he at last emerged in one of the Eastern corridors leading into the _Rotonde du Soleil_. The rays of the rising sun flooded through the large windows and bathed the opulent hallway in their glowing light. It was truly a sight of immeasurable beauty and for the longest time, Erik stood rooted to the spot, watching as the rich golden hues climbed higher and higher until every mirror, every chandelier glistened and reflected them.

Hesitantly, he stepped further into the deserted hallway, feeling strangely moved and small all of a sudden. This was his creation, his masterpiece but already at sunrise it outshone and surpassed him.

With proud but mournful fingers, he began feeling along the walls he had erected. His hands sliding lovingly over marble as well as glass, so absorbed in this surge of emotion that his own reflection did not startle him. But the moment brought confusion as well as peace, for he suddenly yearned to connect with something real again, a sensation he had violently fought since Christine's departure.

Thankfully, he was saved by a cacophony of voices emanating from the grand staircase.

Instinct made him retrace his steps until he was hidden in the hollow space between the walls once more. No doubt, he could have easily confronted whoever it was that dared disrupt the quiet of the opera house at this time of day, but he felt so inexplicably fatigued and uncertain that he rather abhorred the idea of a physical altercation. No, best to remain a shadow, a humble by-product of the sun's radiance.

Consulting his watch once again, he directed his steps towards the back of the house where the manager's office was located. It was as good a place as any to wait for the arrival of Madame Doucet. He kept his movements light and silent, listening intently for any piece of gossip he might be able to use to his advantage, but the only sounds that reached his ears were those of the awakening opera house around him. There was the cleaning staff that made sure the building was well-maintained, the stable masters that tended to the horses outside in the courtyard and a few seamstresses who had risen early to put the finishing touches on some urgent amendments.

But something told him Madame Doucet would favour the tranquillity and privacy of the early hours of the morning.

When he arrived, however, the office was still empty which gave him enough time to put his note into place. He turned it so that the red ink was sure to catch her attention, and then resigned himself to waiting in the deep cavity beneath the floorboards.

Thankfully, his hunch had been right for not long after the door opened and footsteps indicated someone's presence. Erik remained perfectly still until a sharp intake of breath informed him that his letter had reached the correct person this time. Disappointment that he couldn't witness the look on her face threatened to taint the fleeting feeling of glee, and so he decided to vacate the room, safe in the knowledge that they'd, no doubt, soon have a proper encounter.


	5. An Audience with the Ghost

Chapter 4:

The note was small and neatly folded. Her name was written on it in red ink yet it bemused her to see that the ghost could clearly afford expensive writing paper but refused to invest just a little bit more into envelopes. It was a trivial matter, of course, positively laughable yet the mysterious figure was such a nuisance to her life that it didn't take much to annoy her.

In the darkness of her bedroom, the note seemed to glow and beckon her with its strange, spidery handwriting.

Guiltily, her eyes slid to the door while she pondered whether or not she should take another look. Babette's voice kept ringing in her ears and under no circumstances did she want to encourage further insinuations or gossip. Édouard deserved better than to have his memory tarnished. But the drive to re-visit the note was stronger. Had someone challenged her to explain this obsession she would've struggled to find an answer. The fact that it filled the hole Édouard's death had left in her life she wasn't prepared to face just yet.

The small candle on her nightstand was within reach and she lit it with trembling hands, her eyes continuously slipping to the door to check for any signs of movement. But the only sounds she could make out were the creaking floorboards from the servants' quarters above her.

As the candlelight flickered and illuminated the darkness around her, she finally tore her gaze away and directed it towards the note instead.

_Madame Doucet,_

_It has come to my attention that you now hold the key to my Opera, in a manner of speaking. Permit me first to apologise for being remiss in making your acquaintance, something I wish to rectify shortly as you will see in just a moment. I fear your assistant, Monsieur Moreau – by the by, an amusing, little fellow – appears to have decided to keep us apart. Perhaps he'd rather not share my attention, or perhaps he simply considers you unsuitable for the position or unable to handle the situation. I am certain we both agree that this is rather tactless of him and, if I may speak candidly, a waste of time and resources – and I must admit I grow rather testy when dealing with incompetent people._

_But we have only just met and, therefore, I am prepared to overlook these…difficulties. Teething problems, shall we call them? From now on, I shall make sure these correspondences reach you and you alone. There will be no more excuses from now on, take my word for it, for I have eyes and ears everywhere and will know when you are lying._

_My demands are simple enough, and I am certain you will follow them to the letter. My salary of 20,000 francs will be delivered monthly to the armchair in box 5 by Madame Giry. She has handled previous transactions and proven herself to be trustworthy. Likewise, box 5 is to be reserved for my exclusive use. Should this demand be ignored I will be forced to find a seat elsewhere, and we know how much trouble an uninvited third party can cause. Lastly, I find the operas you have selected rather offensive to my ears and require an indefinite period of rest. Should even a single note reach my ears, I'll be forced to take drastic action as I have done multiple times in the past week – perhaps I'd recommend a chat with Monsieur Moreau who will, no doubt, be happy to further enlighten you._

_I trust you'll find my demands to be reasonable yet I suggest a meeting to formally settle matters. This Friday at 6 o'clock in the morning will suit us both, no doubt. I shall be waiting for you in my box and am delighted to formally make your acquaintance._

_Until then I'll remain your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

The nerve of the man, the very arrogance that oozed from each of his words was so infuriating she wanted to scream. Yet somehow she managed to remind herself that only a level-headed approach would help her deal with him. After reading the note a second time, she still had no intentions of complying with any of his ridiculous demands, but she was determined to keep this opinion to herself until she had spoken to him. Then she'd ponder which further actions would be worth taking.

There was, however, one piece of information that had made her curious, although she was under no illusion that he had accidentally let it slip. Whether she wanted to or not, Madame Giry would have some questions to answer…

* * *

Babette had been quiet and dutiful since speaking her mind so bluntly, despite Julianne's frequent attempts of putting her at ease. This morning was no exception. She helped her into her dress without wasting a single word and answered her questions most simply and politely when putting up her hair.

Her behaviour pained Julianne because it plunged the house into even greater silence. She hadn't established many close friendships in the past and had found the good-natured chatter of her maid a welcome distraction.

Downstairs in the courtyard, Alexandre was at hand again to help her into the carriage. The young man had aged considerably since her husband had passed away and there were certain days, when she wished to reach out to him and ask him what he missed most about Édouard. It would've been inappropriate, perhaps, especially if they were to be seen alone in each other's company, but surely it would have felt more comforting than the prying words of acquaintances and family members.

Paris was awakening around them as the carriage slipped through cobble-stoned streets. Vendors were setting up their stalls, passed occasionally by well-dressed men in crinkled frocks who appeared in no hurry to return home. Once or twice in a life that now felt foreign, she and Édouard had been amongst those few stragglers, spilling out of Café Jacquin in the early hours of the morning. Those few times when Édouard, after all a prominent diplomat, had brushed aside her concerns and insisted they enjoyed themselves, irrespective of the gossip that was sure to follow. There had been a twinkle in his eyes then, the same she had seen when he had slipped Alexandre an extra coin at the end of a particularly stressful day.

Gripped by a sudden wave of emotion, she paused when the young man helped her out of the carriage at one of the deserted side entrances of the Opera.

"I hope you're well, Alexandre, and continue to be happy in our employ?"

The "our" slipped out, refused to shrink down to the "my" which felt raw and exposing. Two small letters, big enough to expand in her chest, stealing all room for air. She wasn't ready and it wasn't the truth. Édouard was still with her, perhaps he would always be.

"Of course, Madame." Alexandre replied politely and bowed, but his eyes with the kind laugh lines remained empty.

His sadness touched her own and unable to stop herself, she reached out to squeeze his hand. No words would have been powerful enough to express the sympathy she felt, so she hoped that the gesture would suffice.

Unable to tolerate the magnitude of the moment for much longer, she tore herself away and strode up the stairs and into the cool darkness of the opera house. Registering no voices or movement, she granted herself a second just to breathe. Gradually, the knot in her chest loosened and she continued towards the office.

She dedicated several hours of her time looking through the drawers of the big oak desk, trying to unearth more secrets that it might contain. But with nothing concrete to look for, the task soon became tedious and so she briefly ventured outside the office to send for Madame Giry. The older woman did not take long and appeared in the office not five minutes later. The only hint of light in her otherwise strict, black dress was a white blouse. It made Julianne wonder if they had more in common than she'd expected.

"I apologise for interrupting your work," she began softy, "and I regret that we only formally make each other's acquaintance now under these circumstances."

Madame Giry maintained the calm but indifferent demeanour with which she had entered and offered no word in response.

"I remember seeing you instruct the girls when Édouard," she swallowed; saying his name felt like having to share a part of him which, in turn, was nothing more than another fresh loss, "when my husband first took his position. I greatly admired the respect the girls displayed towards you."

"But that is not why you have asked me here," Madame Giry said directly but without impatience or hostility.

Nonetheless, Julianne found her to be slightly unnerving.

"No," she shook her head, "as you know I am trying to find out more about this ghost that keeps disrupting our performances. It has recently come to my attention that you appear to know him better than you at first let on."

She paused to observe the effect her words would have but no emotion betrayed the other woman's thoughts.

"I must admit I would have preferred it, had you stepped forward when I asked for details about Christine Daaé but I'd be grateful if you offered your assistance now."

Madame Giry did not strike her as an easily frightened woman, yet it didn't escape her either that her eyes suddenly darted across the room.

"I'm afraid I must decline once again, Madame," she answered respectfully.

"Madame Giry, if he is threatening you," Julianne began, rising out of her chair but the dark-haired woman was quick to cut her off.

"I can assure you the Opera Ghost has never troubled me. But you must excuse me now. My girls are easily distracted and if there's to be any hope of a decent performance tonight, we must rehearse rigorously now."

"He will disrupt the performance yet again if you don't help me!" Julianne exclaimed angrily but Madame Giry had already turned around and left.

* * *

Box 5 was an inconspicuous looking space that, on the surface, didn't differ from any of the other boxes in the building. Granted, it stood at an almost perfect angle to the stage, awarding a view of even the farthest corner, but that wasn't reason enough to justify the ghost's insistent ownership of it.

Looking around a bit, Julianne eventually took a seat in the armchair and waited for the arrival of the ghost. She had hoped to enter this meeting with enough information to put them on mutual ground, but after her unsuccessful conversation with Madame Giry, it seemed the whole ensemble had made it a point to avoid her. Removing her bonnet and veil, she continued waiting while the minutes silently ticked by, listening for any sign of movement from the corridor outside.

"Your punctuality is commendable, Madame."

His voice appeared out of nowhere, startling and surprising her at the same time. Having heard the demented laughter on the eve of the premiere, she had not expected it to sound so soft and silky. It was strangely beautiful yet utterly repulsive in its arrogance and conviction.

"I wish the same could be said about you, Monsieur," she replied, "disappointing, since _you_ insisted on this encounter."

His quiet laughter made her feel cold and ill.

"You are rather outspoken, Madame," the voice remarked, nothing more than hissed whisper in her ear.

She swallowed and subtly wiped her moist palm on her dress.

"And you are cowardly, trying to intimidate me with cheap tricks," she held against him, stoically staring ahead and refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking around for the source of his voice. "Who are you then to feel the need to hide and torment others?"

" _I dwell in darkness as a dead man out of sight; And none remains, not one, that I should tell to him mine evil plight_."

Impatiently, she grasped the hem of her dress and pulled it together in her fist. She could not shake the image of a sly cat that was deriving pleasure from playing with a half dead mouse.

"Since you seem determined to waste my time, Monsieur, allow me to cut to the chase. Both of the demands outlined in your note are unreasonable, especially when considering that you also expect me to stop performances indefinitely. How do you suppose I shall raise the 20,000 francs if not from our ticket sales?"

"That hardly concerns me, Madame," the voice replied. "Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard found a way, as did Monsieur Poligny before them. I am certain a woman of your standing and affluence will hardly struggle to do the same."

"Perhaps not, Monsieur," she said, rising to her feet, "but unlike them I am not inclined to give in to senseless threats. This Opera matters a great deal to me and for as long as I am here, music will continue to entertain and please the audiences willing to attend."

Without a second glance towards a possible source of the disembodied voice, she strode out of the box and back towards the office. Nonetheless, the voice suddenly appeared in her ear, whispering gleefully: "Then I am inclined to accept the challenge."

Those whispered words, the triumph and warning within them, were impossible to shake and accompanied her home that evening. She could only begin to guess what dreadful acts the ghost was capable of, acts whose consequences she alone would be responsible for. She desperately needed someone she could beg for guidance but no suitable person came to mind.

"Madame?" Alexandre's gentle voice tore her out of her thoughts and when she blinked she realised that they had arrived back at home.

"Forgive me," she smiled tiredly and took his hand to leave the carriage, "my mind was elsewhere."

"That's quite alright." He reciprocated her smile and walked her into the house. "I also think about him often."

Guilt tore at her heart but for his sake she nodded bravely and then ascended two flights of stairs to her bedroom where Babette was waiting for her.

"Madame?" She approached her cautiously. "This letter was delivered while you were away."

Expecting it to be another black envelope she waved her hand dismissively and sat down on the bed. "Just add it to the others."

"The messenger said it was urgent, Madame," Babette hesitantly explained, stepping forward to offer up the letter again.

Tiredly, Julianne sighed and accepted it.

_Madame Doucet,_

_Perhaps you are right. I am willing to tell you everything I know but not at the Opera, not where He can hear. I will ask my messenger to return tomorrow to collect your reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Madame Giry_


	6. Rupture

Chapter 5:

Madame Doucet possessed equal measures of stamina and commitment, arriving at the Opera in the early hours of the morning and departing usually with the first notes of the evening's performance. Her initial absence was all but forgotten now and Erik couldn't help but feel flattered knowing that this change was due to him. In his opinion, she could have easily distanced herself from the whole affair since Monsieur Moreau seemed eager enough to handle it in his own way. But she had chosen to become and to remain involved which clearly meant she had deemed him intriguing.

Well, the feeling was mutual. Amusement mingled with determination and sometimes annoyance which, all combined, made for a glorious mixture. Every day, he drank his fill of it, then spent the few hours of night-time in satiated sleep, knowing that by the time his body awoke, she would be back again for more.

Today was no exception.

He had stolen to the cavity beneath the manager's office and waited for her arrival which had been timely as always.

How intoxicating a power struggle could be! The back and forth, the delicious promise of defeat!

Why he had ever stopped testing the management he couldn't remember and frankly, it was also irrelevant. The present had so much more to offer, including a selection of unladylike curse words out of Madame Doucet's mouth that were uncharacteristic enough to make him abandon his position beneath the floorboards and sneak up a ramp to an elevated platform behind a painting that awarded him a glimpse of her.

This, he enjoyed, too; a game of hide and seek in which he possessed the upper hand.

From this new vantage point he could see that she had taken refuge behind the desk in the middle of the room. A letter in her hand appeared to be the reason behind the choice words she had previously uttered and he willingly admitted to himself that it was rather a shame it wasn't due to one of his notes. He watched her eyes flying over the few lines of writing again, watched her brows furrow, her posture grow more hunched.

What a strange contradiction she was, full of resignation and defiance. Always carrying a tension in her body that exposed her vulnerability yet expressed her strength.

"Arrogant prig…my best interest indeed…" she now muttered darkly, folding up the piece of paper and tossing it aside.

Behind the painting, Erik had begun to smirk. Temptation compelled him to put his hands together in mock-applause when a sudden change came over her. Her arms shielding her head, she folded in on herself while a violent sob broke from her throat. The moment was so intimate, her grief so raw, that he wished to avert his eyes. She did not utter another word, nor did she produce a sound quite like that one again, but even when her tears had subsided and she had regained control of herself, he found himself staring in fascination at the scaffolding of her grief. Even when he blinked he could not unsee it, that skeleton, that construct of pain hidden beneath thin layers of appearance and spirit. It touched an ache within him that angrily recoiled for it hadn't been meant to see the light of day again.

His fingertips slid off the wall as if he had been burnt and as the helplessness began to swell within him he fled from the room, cursing her. His frantic flight took him down the makeshift corridor that led into the tunnel by the lake where he collided with a body.

Filled with anguish, he grabbed the intruder in an attempt of pushing him against the wall and disarming him, but the pain in his chest stole his strength and paralysed his muscles.

"Allah, what's gotten into you now?" The Persian exclaimed, righting his _karakul_ with trembling hands.

"How many times do I have to warn you not to trespass?" Erik hissed in response, clutching his own hands against his chest.

Narrowing his eyes, Nadir took a step closer to examine his friend. "Have you been burnt yet again?"

"No need to sound so delighted, Daroga," Erik replied, straightening his shoulders.

"In that case, permit me to say that your recent conduct has been appalling. Oh don't look so surprised, of course I have been following you. You know very well that your insinuations the other day were cause for concern. Well, imagine my horror when I watched you stalk after that poor woman time and time again. Must I really remind you yet again where such behaviour has led to in the past?"

"Unfortunately, you appear adamant on doing so," Erik muttered under his breath and directed his steps towards his boat.

"You give me no other choice!" Nadir exclaimed angrily, following suit. "You owe your life to me, remember? And yet I am forced to watch over you as if you were nothing more than an unruly child!"

Incensed, Erik refused to dignify him with an answer and furiously went to work untying his boat.

"Madame Doucet, Erik," Nadir continued, raising his voice. "I demand to know. What's your obsession with her? What plans do you have? Can't you see that the poor woman is grieving? Can't you see that she's been through enough? Do you think it just to subject her to-"

"To what, Daroga?" Erik bellowed, yanking the rope loose so harshly that it left a groove of raw flesh behind in the palm of his stiff hand. "To this monster? To this world of shadows?"

Nadir turned his back to him and heaved a deep sigh. "There is no sense talking to you when you're gripped by such mood…"

"Indeed there is not," Erik agreed darkly and climbed onto the boat, "and for the last time, Daroga, I did not ask for a chaperone."

He pushed away from the shore and as the boat glided further into the dark water of the lake, Nadir's parting words echoed through the cave, "I will not stand by and let you do to her what you did to Christine Daaé. You gave me your word!"

The pole he used to propel the boat forward, ground into his wound time and time again, creating a fresh surge of pain he relished in. Throbbing, burning, predictable in its steady rhythm, solely capable of blocking out his mental torment. By the end of the journey, the pole was wet with blood but he did not possess the strength to wash it now.

Instead, he staggered into his house and collapsed on the floor amidst a mass of broken objects. A howl of agony tore his throat in two, then there was silence and strangled, difficult intakes of air.

The Siamese cat appeared from the bedroom and padded light-footedly towards her master. His body was rocking back and forth as trembles passed through him but he did not object to the soft, warm body that climbed into his lap. The vast and all-consuming emptiness before him fed his mind with cruel, hopeful scenarios he had entertained in the past.

Peace, companionship, love. Man-made concepts he would never be worthy of, created solely to ridicule him.

With a scream of rage he tore his mask off and flung it into a far-away corner of the room. Then he shifted and curled up, pressing his bare face against the soft fur of the feline. Ayesha, who had at first reacted startled to his outburst, relaxed when sensing no danger and began to purr but the sounds only managed to partially calm her master. Tears rolled down his waxen cheeks or disappeared in the hole where his nose should have been.

His grief had a name, one that he daren't speak but one that wrapped itself around him nonetheless, like the tantalising body of the woman it belonged to. Pale and cold but oh so beautiful, beckoning him with its angelic voice. He knew it was an illusion, he knew that _she_ wasn't here in his arms on the damp stone floor. But he was prepared to follow that siren until he drowned at last in the brilliance of her voice, in the frailty of her embrace.

He had possessed her once…an eternity ago, now she was possessing him.

Music, that hateful, remarkable tool that had first made their connection possible, welled up in him without warning. It gripped him, sent him scrambling through the remains of his house in search of one instrument that hadn't been broken. Torn images, dusty volumes and peculiar objects lined his path under which he at last found his violin. The dark wood of its body bore deep cuts, the bridge was no longer firmly set in a horizontal line but as by miracle, all the strings were intact. He lifted it up, corrected what could be corrected and pulled the hair on the bow firmer.

The first sound they birthed together was a screech, a manifestation of his pain. He turned the pegs on the violin's neck haphazardly to tune it. There was no need wasting valuable time on its accuracy for he knew what he was about to produce would not contain beauty. The strings beckoned for his touch and as the music flooded out of him, he complied.

It wasn't by choice or free will. The notes were angry, ruthless and pained. There was no clarity, just dissonance as his fingers struggled to comply with the force of emotion. The bow swung forwards, dancing and grinding over the strings until the wound on his hand began to weep anew. There was no grace to his movement, just an ugly, mechanical drive that did not allow for a single moment of respite. He was creating a monster, a beast that represented all of him, that was feeding on him until he fell to his knees, exhausted.

But even in the silence that followed, that despicable music continued to sing. Covering his ears, he groaned and shrank against the couch. Wherever there was music, there _she_ was _._ And he couldn't bear it, and he couldn't stop it. Even in these grotesque notes she walked with him.

But how could he survive? Craving _her_ presence while suffering through the agonising memories of music? Or facing the punishing hush of _her_ absence?


	7. The Guest

Chapter 6:

That evening, a selection of candelabras were burning bright in the grey sandstone building of the _Rue de Vaugirard_ , their warmer light thought to be more inviting for the guest that was due to arrive any moment. To mark the occasion, since it was the first visitor Julianne had chosen to entertain since Édouard's funeral, Babette had laid out a dress of dark but shinier fabric.

"Suzanna is busy putting the finishing touches to the dining room, Madame," she informed her, standing at hand to help adjust the garment if necessary.

"That's very kind of her," Julianne acknowledged, closing the collar of the dress with a brooch. "I shall be certain to reward her for her additional work."

"Oh, that's hardly necessary, Madame," Babette chuckled good-naturedly. "The food has already been prepared and she is happy to do it."

"No matter," Julianne decided kindly but firmly and turned around to face her maid's critical eye, "I was saddened to let some of you go after Édouard's passing and I am not blind to the efforts each and every one of you left in our employ has put in since. You might be too kind to mention it, but I would hardly qualify as a good mistress if I did not acknowledge it."

"Oh Madame, truly, it is an honour as well as our duty. You have always treated us with the utmost kindness and, if I may speak so freely, we all feel Monsieur Doucet's absence and have made it our mission to look after you with as much care as he had demonstrated all these years."

Babette's passionate words, full of fondness and dedication, made her heart ache and her mind wander to that morning in the manager's office when her father's searching letter had caused her to publicly lose control over her emotions. Granted, nobody had been present to witness this display but that did not take away from the helplessness that had stolen into her soul since.

She hated that Babette's well-meaning sentiment now reminded her of words that had been anything but; however, she refused to let her father's insistence - that she abandon life in France and return to the safe bosom of the family- persuade her into dismissing her maid yet again. Too relieved she was that Babette seemed to have found back to her old, conversational nature.

The tolling of the doorbell penetrated the fog of her thoughts so slowly that she at first did not make the connection between its sound and the arrival of her guest. Only Babette's sudden startled movements brought her back to the present where she silently allowed the maid to fuss over her until she seemed content.

"You look beautiful, Madame," was her cue to rise but still she did so rather dazed, using the length of her descent to the floor below to remind her of the focus of the evening. After all, she hadn't invited Madame Giry for a pleasant round of chit-chat.

When she reached the dining room, she found the stern woman already seated at the table. It wasn't that Julianne had expected her to be openly snooping through the memorabilia on display everywhere, but she also hadn't expected her to take such an interest in her soup dish.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting," she spoke up softly and gave Madame Giry's hand a squeeze when she rose to her feet to greet her. "It has been some time since I last entertained."

"Loss requires all kinds of adjustments," Madame Giry offered and waited for her host to take the lead before she seated herself again.

"I was positively surprised to find your letter, Madame," Julianne began, taking a hesitant sip from her wine glass, "though I am just as curious as to what caused this change of mind."

The woman did not seem offended by her direct approach of the matter, yet a nervousness stole of her features whose subtle nuances Julianne had already noted at their last meeting.

"There was an incident I witnessed a while ago…shortly before your late husband was appointed the new manager."

She abruptly fell silent when a figure appeared in the doorway. Julianne hadn't noticed it at first, had been so busy holding her breath at the impending revelation. But when Madame Giry failed to continue talking, she turned her head to see what had caused the pause.

"Soup, Madame?" Suzanna inquired carefully, pressing two mitts against the bowl that was sure to singe her fingers.

"Yes, of course, silly girl. Just put it down before you hurt yourself!" Julianne instructed and glanced at Madame Giry to signal that she understood her reservations.

As the silence stretched on, the young girl began spooning soup in the little ceramic bowls in front of them, her hurried glances giving away the curiosity with which she viewed this encounter.

"Do close the door on your way out," Julianne told her gently as she was walking to the door and with a curtsy and one last intrigued glance, she hurried out. "An incident, Madame?" Julianne then prompted again, watching her spoon submerge beneath the surface of the soup, hoping that her own curiosity was not quite so apparent.

"Yes," Madame Giry's eyes were fixed on the dish in front of her, "perhaps you had heard of the doomed _Faust_ performance in which our stage was suddenly plunged into darkness and a counterweight fell and crushed a woman in the audience?"

Julianne swallowed and made sure a piece of potato bobbed off her spoon so that there was only broth left when she tasted the soup.

"I must admit I hadn't," she then quietly replied. "Édouard had been a frequent visitor to the _Palais Garnier_ but just as often his work required him to travel. And in his absence I much preferred the company of books to that of music."

Madame Giry nodded calmly but still refused to touch her own food.

"Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin made sure to minimise publicity about events such as those but the Sûreté came to investigate nonetheless. They dealt with the body, of course, and insisted to take a look at all the counterweights, including the fallen one, to make sure there'd be no repeat of the dangerous accident." She paused, looking towards the covered window, her eyes glazing over as if she was focusing on some mesmerising spot in the distance. "I happened to be in the corridor when the managers ushered the chief into their office." Her voice sounded different, harder and tired. "It appeared the fall of the counterweight hadn't been an accident. Somebody, so the chief insisted, had been meddling with the hydrogen pumps, forcing the black-out…and an explosive device had been found in the rubble near the counterweight. Not a day later, the managers decided to appoint a new successor so that they could go into early retirement."

"The ghost did this?" Julianne asked darkly and Madame Giry nodded, without tearing her eyes away from the covered window.

"They believed so…"

"And you, Madame Giry?" Julianne probed.

"I did not want to believe it. The Opera Ghost had always been kind to me. He had tasked me with handling his salary. He never threatened me, he hardly spoke to me and on the few occasions that he did it was with the voice and the conduct of a true gentleman. He alone saw my Meg's talent and helped her gain a better spot in the _corps de ballet_. Oh how can I possibly betray him now?"

The dismay, the reality of her actions, seemed to catch up with her so suddenly that she buried her face in her hands, and although her sense of duty compelled her to steer the conversation onto other matters, Julianne knew it was important not to let this matter go just yet.

"Perhaps because you sense, just as I have done, that he can be a dangerous man."

Madame Giry touched her usually so neat hair with shaky hands and exhaled. "As long as we appease him, we won't have to fear him."

"But his demands are ludicrous!" Julianne exclaimed angrily. "And they will cost this opera house…No, Madame Giry, I do not plan on complying with a lunatic. The only way of finding him, of stopping him hurting another person, however, is by learning more about him. Is there anything else you can tell me? What about Christine Daaé?"

Whatever little colour had been left in Madame Giry's aging cheeks quickly disappeared as she heard the girl's name.

"I do not know for certain, Madame. I thought he had seen her talent, just like Meg's…it was her who encouraged Christine to sing for the Opera Ghost, you see. And just like that he heard her, he taught her and he helped her be noticed by the management."

Julianne nodded wordlessly, though her mind was busy pondering which back-handed methods he'd applied to twist that poor girl into position.

"It was her…" Madame Giry was whispering now. "The counterweight, the light, all for _her_. None of us noticed this at the time…once the chaos broke loose there wasn't time…we didn't think… When you demanded to see me in your office last week, Meg grew suspicious. She asked why I had been called, if I had heard from Him again. And when I confessed she announced me mad…told me what Christine had told her in a correspondence after her disappearance. The ghost had taken her that night. Why, I cannot say but Meg insisted we had all been fortunate to escape with our lives intact."

The same feeling of dread that had overcome her when she had heard the deranged laughter at the premiere of _Robert le Diable_ , befell her now again and she eyed the woman in front of her with some concern. His obsession with Christine Daaé, however wrong and misguided, at least offered an explanation, but the situation now was different. Without an explanation to understand him, without a motive, he was even more unpredictable.

The only positive she could find was that he was human in as much as that he loved, ached and bled just like the next person. He wasn't invincible and, provided one invested a bit of time and patience, could even be caught making a mistake.

"You have been most helpful, Madame Giry. But I must ask another favour of you."

The older woman tiredly lifted her head and raised an eyebrow in question.

"I shall write a note to your daughter. Promise me you'll pass it on?"

"You will not put her in danger?" Madame Giry asked in return.

"Not in any more than she's already in," Julianne promised, eating two more spoonfulls of soup before pushing the dish away and rising to her feet.

She strode across the room and to the writing desk her husband had regularly used, extracted a piece of paper and began writing the message. When she was done, she folded it up, placed it in an envelope and handed it to Madame Giry who also seemed to have lost her appetite.

Unaware, Suzanna appeared to collect their dishes and serve them their main of roast beef, potatoes and green beans. The silence that engulfed them was tense and uncomfortable yet Julianne made no attempt to fill it. Her head was buzzing with practicalities such as the possible exit routes the ghost could be taking day after day, and the precautions she had to take if she wanted to catch him. The size and danger of the endeavour suddenly opened up in front of her like a dizzying chasm that she could only hope to cross if she trusted herself and did not allow the winds to rattle her.

"Madame Giry?" she asked suddenly, her face scrunching into a frown. "Did you say you had heard from Him again?"

"Yes," the older woman admitted, lowering her cutlery, "it was nothing short of ordinary. He had included a note he needed me to pass on to a messenger."

"And did you comply?" Julianne asked, still puzzled.

"Of course, I could see no harm in doing so."

"No…" she hummed, pondering the contents of the letter.

But any questions that developed in her head vanished when Madame Giry suddenly rose to her feet. "Forgive me but I cannot stay any longer."

Slowly following suit, Julianne nodded in understanding and guided her out of the room and downstairs into the yard. Of course she had hoped her guest would stay longer so that any questions that might arise over the course of the evening could be answered, but it was hardly appropriate to force her to stay.

"Allow Alexandre to drive you home?" she offered by gesture of good will.

"That's quite alright," the other woman demurred, clearly in a rush to leave.

"No, I insist, Madame. I have caused you great upset and I do hope you'll forgive me."

Perhaps it was the surprise that motivated Madame Giry to accept her offer and suddenly grasp her hands.

"May your husband watch over you," she said with emotion before making her way to the carriage.


	8. Counterpoint

Chapter 7:

It felt like a hangover or at the very least like the concept of a hangover he had formed in his mind. He couldn't lay claim on ever having experienced one. Alcohol could be delicious, of course, but he had felt it lacking something that would intoxicate him sufficiently. And, similarly to most foods he had tried in his time, he found it to grow quite sickening after a while. His opiates tended to linger as well but faintly, perhaps owing to years of regular usage.

No, this was something quite different.

His tongue and throat felt like sandpaper, his eyelids heavy and sore and his limbs seemed to dangle uselessly off his body as if they didn't quite belong to him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, cautiously twirled his foot, then his wrist, trying to develop a feel for his body again. White, hot music suddenly throbbed through him, made him yelp in surprise for he had almost forgotten what had caused him to wake up on his sofa in this disoriented state.

What day was it?

How long had he been absent?

He sat up sharply, his eyes roaming across the room in search of a calendar, in search of _something_ that would tell him how long this black-out had lasted. But of course there was nothing, just darkness and the never-ending sameness of this prison he had inadvertently erected around himself.

Annoyance surged through him, strong enough to block out the hateful music. To think he may have given that woman the idea she could have bested him! It was so appalling a notion that even the thought of a triumphant, surprising return that would crush all her hopes, was not enough to fix it. He had lost his footing, _she_ had made him lose it and was now helping another pathetic, conceited woman to victory. But _she_ wouldn't win, not this time. _She'd_ succeeded in making him look a fool once, he would not make the same mistake twice.

With some effort he pulled himself into a sitting position, regretting this decision instantly when the contents of his brain seemed to lurch sickeningly from one side to the other. Little white orbs and other unfinished shapes danced before his eyes and he shifted his fingertips to his temples as if to steady himself.

Unaware of her master's struggle, Ayesha leapt onto his lap and pressed her face into the hollow between his ribs. He petted her absent-mindedly but she impatiently swatted his attempts away and presented him instead with a disgruntled meow.

"You're hungry, I know," he rasped, scooping her up under her belly and gently placing her down onto the floor.

Still unsteady on his feet, he staggered towards the cabinet that housed her food and presented her with a tin of caviar. Pacified, she began to purr and just for a moment, while listening to the sweet sounds she produced, he felt optimistic that all hadn't been lost.

Then the alarm resounded around him, splitting his head in two once more.

Cursing loudly and angrily, he reached for his cloak and the cat-gut hidden within its folds and strode out of the house. The blurred vision that overcame him once in a while only served to fuel his anger. Whoever dared disturb his peace would not receive lenience!

He climbed up the slick stone staircase that connected the western side of the house with the _Rue Scribe_ , struggling all the while since his feet still refused to move by the fluent rhythm they usually followed. But the alarm hadn't resounded from the nearby torture chamber, giving him no choice but to make the treacherous trip.

Erik spotted the pale man before he ever saw him coming. He was clearly lost, fumbling along the wet walls in an attempt at finding the right path. Under different circumstances Erik might have seen the humour in this but today he was not in the mood for games.

"You are trespassing, Monsieur," he informed him coldly, "and I'm afraid that is punishable by death."

The noose wrapped itself around his neck with lethal accuracy. The man's hand flew clumsily upwards but found he could not escape. The more he jerked, the angrier the rope bit into his skin.

"Monsieur…please…" he choked out, "you did not…attend…the arranged…I saw…"

Ugly retching sounds filled the air and impatiently, Erik loosened the lasso somewhat.

"You're making a spectacle of yourself and it repulses me. Speak now, if you must, I suppose even a dying man has a right to some last words."

Hope stirred up by the opportunity to explain himself, the man sucked in a big gulp of air, choked on it and coughed violently for a few seconds. Then he continued hoarsely, "Your courier contacted me. I have brought everything you asked for."

"And more, it appears," Erik remarked grimly, "I don't recall inviting you to my house."

"Monsieur, please," the man was begging now, tears of desperation pooling in his eyes, "you did not arrive and I've always known you to be punctual. I grew…concerned…especially after the courier told me that somebody had been asking questions about you. I tried locating the passage you-"

He did not have time to scream. The noose cut short his life so quickly that any last, remaining coherent thought he may have had, vanished in a series of gurgles.

Erik didn't blink when he removed the lasso and the body collapsed on the floor in front of him. He appraised the rope with silent focus, feeling for any rips or weaknesses that would render it less effective. When he didn't encounter any, he pocketed the weapon and stepped over the corpse in front of him.

His head felt clear at last and as his lungs filled with delicious air, his whole body seemed to relax, dispelling any lingering aches that had previously inhabited it.

_Madame Doucet_.

There was no doubt on his mind. Who else could have made Madame Giry break her vow of silence?

_Madame Doucet._

Pestering him at every turn. A year or more without the delicious act of killing until she had come along. Now it would be impossible to stop. The fresh kill sent tingles of pure pleasure through him, akin to the excitement he felt when he pressed a new needle into his skin. The rush was nearly the same.

Of course, he'd have to dispose of the man eventually, the sewers were crawling with enough rats already and God knows he didn't need to attract even more of Nadir's attention, but for the time being there were more important matters to attend to. Such an easy breach of his private domain was unforgivable.

His mind frantically considered the sly tactics the man might have applied to gain access but, truth be told, he did not think him smart enough to figure out something so complex. He flexed his arm absent-mindedly and when that did not help chase the returning ache away, he rubbed the tender spot around his elbow where his tendons were protesting. Blood was staining his palm once more, so focused had he been that he had forgotten all about his injury.

The evening air then felt like a cold shower, clearing his mind of the lingering, greedy thoughts the murder had stirred up in him. And clarity was what he needed if he wanted to detect the flaw in his system that had enabled the merchant to stroll into his domain.

Or so he thought.

Because, in fact, the entrance was much too obvious for those who knew where to wait. The stone panel that acted as a switch had become washed out by age. Not only that, it also showed visible marks left by fingertips applying pressure. He doubted that any passers-by would possess a keen enough eye to notice it, but he couldn't take the risk. Tonight, after the Opera and cloaked in darkness, he would have to return and repair it.

But for now, he re-directed his steps towards his house, picking up the bag of goods the merchant had dropped, the one he hadn't noticed when he had first encountered him. The morphine he kept wrapped up on his sofa, the fresh tins of meat he deposited in the usual cupboard and after a quick wash, he put on some of the new hand-tailored garments. He had an Opera to attend, after all, and a lady to meet. It just wouldn't be right to turn up in any old frock.

* * *

The orchestra was tuning by the time he appeared behind the wall of box 5, the indistinct sounds just enough to mask his footsteps. Not that he expected the regular occupants to pay much attention to anything like that, but he was almost certain that Madame Doucet would, that she was waiting for him, perched on _his_ chair, cloaked in that air of detached superiority.

His plan was reckless, he knew, but if she was so adamant to see him then by God she would!

His long fingers operated the lever that pulled up the marble lookalike and allowed him access to the box of red silk. He had expected her there, of course, and still the sight of the strict bun made him clench his fist by his side. Temptation whispered to him to dispose of her then and there. He wouldn't need his lasso, he could just wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze until all life was forced out of her. Bearing Nadir's wrath would be a minor nuisance and there was no-one else that would miss her.

Moreau was too afraid of him to meddle, would make her body disappear one way or another. Mousy little men like him always found a way to hide their sins.

And who else would care?

Her husband was under the ground already and thus far there had been no mention of children.

His heart ached suddenly; a soft, small tune rang in his ears. He couldn't be certain. And what was to become of the child if he was wrong? Another innocent soul out on the streets, vulnerable and exposed to all the ugliness the world had to offer? No, he couldn't have that young person's blood on his conscience.

His hands withdrew slowly from the vicinity of her neck and with a quick touch of his frock, he composed himself.

"You are beginning to try my patience, Madame."

She didn't startle overtly but pushed the palm of her hand into her thigh.

"But perhaps that is your intention."

"A box is there to be used, Monsieur, and an opera is meant to be heard."

He almost admired her for the composure she displayed, keeping her eyes fixed on the stage and resisting temptation to turn around and see if he really was there.

"This is _my_ box, Madame," he hissed into her ear, delighting in the shiver it created, "and _I_ do not wish to hear this abomination of sound."

Her palm pressed into her thigh once again before releasing its hold altogether. He watched the delicate curve of her neck as she swivelled around in her chair. Her lips parted when she caught her first glimpse of him but she quickly recovered and closed her mouth.

"I hope you aren't disappointed," he remarked menacingly.

"I am not certain why I'm surprised that a man like yourself would hide behind a mask," she spoke softly as if trying her best not to disturb the performance with unnecessary sounds.

"Careful now, Madame, you don't find me in good spirits."

She took a step closer, sizing him up with her dark-blue eyes. Everything about her was dark, but measured and calm, unlike the outburst he had witnessed the other day.

She stopped in front of him, far too close to be socially acceptable, and suddenly seemed at a loss of what to do next. An instinctive armour of taunting or dismissive words usually came easy to Erik, but in this moment he found himself just as captured by the determined indecisiveness she displayed.

"We are an opera house, Monsieur, and you don't appear daft to me. We must make money. As I have stated before, your wage demand can only be met if we reach a target of ticket sales. I am not Monsieur Richard or Monsieur Moncharmin. Thankfully, I am not poor but I cannot possibly afford the 20,000 francs you ask for. And quite frankly, I refuse to comply with such an arrogant demand. If you truly wish, I am prepared to keep this box empty for your use…as a demonstration of good-will between us, if you wish. But if you truly hope to be paid, performances must take place and you must offer some skill to warrant it."

When she had ceased to talk, he broke into sickening laughter that reverberated from the walls around them, drawing irritated whispers from the boxes nearby.

"You have quite the nerve, Madame." His bony fingers closed around her wrists and tugged her close enough to bridge even the small gap between their bodies. "Making my trusted Madame Giry waver, endangering her, spying on me…"

"I suppose we have that in common, Monsieur," she responded pointedly though the tremble in her voice betrayed her.

Dismantled by the abrasive attitude of the woman, he grabbed her harder, fingertips digging into her flesh, and began dragging her towards his secret passageway.

"If you think I'm just going to follow you, you are mistaken, Monsieur!" she snapped angrily, digging her heels into the carpeted floor and putting up as much resistance as she could muster. "I am not Christine Daaé ."

He released her and whirled around prepared to strike her when the crashing music suddenly thumped in his eardrums and flooded his chest with pain.

"My staff would ask questions, Monsieur. They would search for me," she continued.

She may have continued.

He couldn't be certain.

The pity in her eyes was eating him up.

"You won't be so lucky next time," He whispered, an empty threat, as hollow as the wall through which he made his escape.


	9. Madame Doucet's Abduction

Chapter 8:

When the letters arrived, first at the office, then at the house, Julianne had braced herself for another threat from the Opera Ghost…or perhaps something even worse than that.

Since their last encounter everything had been eerily silent and she could not shake the feeling that something dreadful was about to happen. She had wounded his pride, of that she was certain, and made him even more dangerous by uttering that stupid knee-jerk remark that astounded her still. In his absence she had busied herself locating the secret passageway through which he had fled but there was no sign, no small detail to betray the smooth, marble façade.

So she'd been relieved to discover a correspondence from Adelina Patti, a popular soprano, instead. It appeared she had shown interest in joining the ensemble previously but had been ignored or denied by the management. While Julianne couldn't claim to be an expert on the world of opera, she also wasn't ignorant enough not to have heard of Adelina Patti, especially not when being married to an aficionado like Édouard. It was, therefore, inexplicable to her that Moreau had denied the diva a role in the past. Had their takings been limited she would have attributed it to their inability to pay her the wage she demanded, but since that wasn't the case she could not imagine what on earth had prompted him to make such a terrible decision.

The Palais Garnier hadn't had a big name since La Carlotta had left and could surely only attract an even greater interest with a new star associated with it. She hesitated only briefly, considering how the behaviour of the ghost would affect Patti's arrival but then decided, perhaps naively, that she might possess enough talent to win him over.

The correspondence she had received, had invited her to the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux where the diva was currently wrapping up a performance. While a somewhat unusual offer, Julianne had felt humbled by the dedication the woman clearly possessed and driven by a desire to flee the city, she'd scribbled a hasty reply and handed it to her courier.

The day she was set to travel to Bordeaux was the day the body was discovered.

She'd arrived at the opera house early in the morning as was her habit and had allowed Alexandre to help her carry her luggage into the office.

"No doubt the chauffeur will assist you with these later on?"

He seemed unsettled at the prospect of letting her out of his sight, almost like a son who'd become even more protective after the loss of the father, or so Julianne imagined. She had never been blessed with children.

"I would imagine so," she smiled, hoping to put him at ease, "after all, Adelina Patti is trying to win my favour. It would be terribly silly if she sent someone who did not possess any manners."

Alexandre chuckled, if also nervously, and then retreated to the door when he could find no excuse to linger.

"I shall be back in no time and I will send a letter ahead to inform you of my arrival."

He nodded politely, bowed and then took his leave.

Juliane found herself staring after him, thinking back to the first few months after Édouard's death and the difficult decisions she had to face. Choosing which one of the loyal domestic staff to keep and which one to let go had been heart-wrenching, made worse by the show of understanding most of them displayed. Trying to understand how to appropriately spread the money between the remaining few was even harder. Julianne had been well-educated by her father but it wasn't so much about the mathematics behind it, as the dos and don'ts of such an undertaking.

How to figure out if Patti's demands were unreasonable or not was a problem she'd still have to solve. Therefore, she reluctantly abandoned her reverie and retreated to the desk to search for some information about the ensemble's wages. Of course, she could have asked Moreau directly since as a former bookkeeper he was still in charge of handling the finances, but his lack of judgement and his secretiveness had disappointed her and made her even more determined to discover and handle matters herself.

Julianne remained occupied for some time and so it was nothing more than a coincidence that she heard about the gruesome find. Had she been not so susceptible to the sound of chaos, she would have missed it and no-one would have paused to inform her.

The corpse had been dead for several days, yet it was leaning against the side façade of the opera building almost peacefully as if it had just taken a little nap from which it had never awoken again. Its waxen skin seemed to melt off the scaffolding of bones and a fine line that appeared to be carved into the skin, out of which maggots and an assortment of other vultures were crawling, suggested strongly that his end had been anything but pleasant.

A small crowd consisting largely of employees from the Opera had gathered around it, taking perverse pleasure in surveying the work of the Sûreté. Hardly anyone else seemed to care. Perhaps the Parisians had grown so jaded by the crime and squalor that surrounded them day in and day out, that the find of a single corpse did not matter.

But it mattered to Julianne, mattered greatly and not just because she couldn't bear to witness another death, but because she knew that it was a message to her. No-one but the Opera Ghost would have taken the trouble to place the corpse there. He had wanted her to hear about this. She didn't know who the man was, she didn't know what he had done to displease the Opera Ghost but somehow this was her fault. He had alluded to it, hadn't he? He had warned her.

She pushed herself deeper into the crowd, allowed them to swallow her up.

Which of these people around her would be next? Whose life was she gambling away?

The corpse was lifted up at last, his softened limbs dangling helplessly off the gurney. The mocking sun caught itself in an object around the man's finger, a wedding band that threw the light blindingly back into her face.

A sharp breath escaped her and she turned wildly on the spot, trying to locate a way out of the throng but it was impossible. Everyone had shifted closer together and was surging forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the body as it was being carried away. There were angry words in her ears and pointy elbows in her sides and she was being trampled. She pivoted at the same time as the crowd pushed forward again, bringing her face to face with the deceased.

Somewhere across town another woman would soon receive the news she had been dreading.

_I'm afraid he's contracted pneumonia, Madame, tonight will be crucial._

Or perhaps she would never find out. Perhaps he wasn't prominent enough to be successfully identified.

_Madame Doucet,_

_Allow me to express my sincere condolences. Édouard was a loving husband and a remarkable man. I am terribly saddened I did not insist sooner that he'd see a physician. I fear I am in part responsible. Know that he loved you very much._

_With regret,_

_Jules Ferry_

Sweat pooled beneath her corset, traced down a delicate line over her stomach, following a path Édouard's fingers had often taken. Somehow she broke free, ran a few paces until she was forced to stop, dispelling food and bile onto the pavement. Panting and cold, she steadied herself against the wall of the opera house with one hand, and used the back of the other to wipe her mouth. The secrets hidden in the folds of the cloak she had haphazardly thrown on seemed to singe her skin.

Two letters bearing the seal of the de Chagny family.

"Madame Doucet?" The voice startled her despite its calmness and turning around she found herself staring into the dark eyes of Madame Giry. "Are you unwell?"

Julianne wiped her mouth again before lowering her trembling hand.

"You must leave," she urged her quietly, "attend your daughter's wedding and then retire. He knows you have betrayed him. You will be next."

The other woman's eyes widened while sympathetic wrinkles blossomed on her skin.

"He has never hurt me, Madame, and as long as my Meg is safe I have no fear."

Panic welled up in her, combined with the urge to shake some sense into the woman.

"Please! I cannot have another one's life on my conscience!" she wanted to yell at her but the dispersing crowd had found a new focus in her shaken frame, and so she tore herself away with the remaining shreds of dignity she possessed and retreated into the cool interior of the building. But whatever peace she had hoped to find was quickly chased away when members of the crowd joined her, passing her by with curious glances.

She felt herself becoming a spectacle, an oddity. A woman in a man's world, a woman whose duty it should have been to stay at home, a woman chasing a ghost.

She couldn't bear those nosy looks anymore, those ruthless stares that seemed to tear the foundation of her composure away from under her feet. Blindly, she set course for the office, walking at first, then running, driven on by the panic and despair that seemed to tighten its grasp on her. Blood was pounding in her ears while her heart was throbbing frantically as if it longed to beat its way out of her chest.

She didn't hear the wall as it slid open. She didn't notice the man that had become one with the darkness. But she felt his hands, cold and unfeeling, covered in leather gloves dragging her into the corridors beyond.

Instinct to survive made her struggle against him, but his grip was firm and unwavering, as if a metal cuff had been permanently attached to her wrists. After a while filled with nothing but silence and angry pants and gasps, her body slackened.

"If you intend to do to me what you have done to him, please just be quick."

He chuckled again and tilted his head up so that she realised for the first time that his eyes were of an odd amber colour that seemed to glow in the darkness.

"I don't intend to harm you just yet, Madame," he responded with all the politeness of a gentleman, just as Madame Giry had described. "On the contrary, I am once again inviting you to my house."

"And I must, once again, decline."

It became clear to her then that she was dealing with a madman and the only way to stand her ground was to treat him with his own brand of curtesy.

"I have a rather important appointment with a famous opera singer. She expects me, Monsieur, and if I fail to show up I am certain questions will be asked."

"By who? Your servants? I believe they've already been informed of your departure. And Adelina Patti? Did you really think a woman famed for her temper and stubbornness would grovel and beg for a role at this opera house?"

She felt herself shrink as his laughter reverberated around her. How could she have so blindly trusted a letter that had been delivered to the Opera? But there'd be another one delivered to her house! The shock, the realisation of his omnipresence made her feel like a tiny insect caught in a fat spider's web.

"I won't do it," she decided though her voice sounded feeble and thin.

"If you must," he inclined his head and turned around, leaving her in utter darkness once more, "you won't be the last person starving in this maze."

Her panicked breath emerged in small hiccups as she watched his tall body disappear. Closing her eyes, she counted his steps, willing herself to outlast him. If he had brought her here, there would also be a way out. But as the silence grew heavier around her and her searching fingers encountered nothing but hard, unforgiving stone, her fear muted all rational thought.

"Please, please, I'll come just don't leave me here!" she cried into the darkness but no sound betrayed his presence.

Crumbling, she sank down onto the damp floor, permanently cut off from the world of daylight.


	10. Beyond

Chapter 9:

The darkness was so all-consuming that everything in its vicinity ceased to exist. Time was an abstract concept she couldn't grasp anymore, as was colour.

The pitch black of the corridor she found herself in was so disorientating that she needed to plant her hands firmly on the damp stone floor to remind herself which way was up and which way was down. Shallow breaths escaped her mouth every once in a while, fluttering over the collar of her dress, creating the smallest whisper of sound magnified by the silence into something loud enough to startle her. It brought to mind the shuffling of little feet, like the scurrying movements of rats or cockroaches. And why shouldn't they be here in this moist, confined space right by her side?

Hastily she withdrew her hands and pulled her legs closer to the rest of her body, so that every exposed bit of skin could be covered by fabric. More moments ticked by or perhaps they didn't, she really had lost the ability to tell. But after a while her frantic thoughts settled, focused on old memories instead.

Édouard would have had something funny to say to lighten her spirits. She sought solace in the comments he might have made. But even those fond memories and playful assumptions lost their shine when positioned alongside the large gap of his absence.

She was alone, alone in the dark, left at the mercy of a lunatic and murderer.

"Are you done?"

His voice was quiet but most certainly mocking yet she found herself looking up to him nonetheless.

"Yes."

She didn't know what he had meant, what she was supposed to be done with, but she couldn't bear another moment in this purgatory of remembrance and doubt.

"Brush off your clothes, you've made yourself dirty."

Tiredly she pushed herself away from the wall, momentum briefly carrying her forward until her fingertips came to rest on the ground, keeping her in an unsteady balance.

A sigh laced with impatience.

She tensed her muscles and pushed upwards until she finally found herself in a standing position. Her chest ached, a pain that seemed to extend to every part of her body. But she kept moving, following the sound of his retreating footsteps. Perhaps he was going to kill her now, her brain lazily supplied, perhaps this would all be over soon.

The walk was never-ending, infinite corridors sloping deeper and deeper beneath the Opera. She staggered on uncertainly, her feet slipping over smooth stones, trying in vain to navigate the passageways with as much confidence and power as the man in front of her. Eventually she gave up trying, stopped focusing on the ground swallowed up by darkness and fixed her eyes on him instead.

One impossible task exchanged for another.

His cloak billowed softly behind him as he walked but the dark fabric melted so perfectly with the blackness around them that her eyes watered. He was tall, taller than she had realised at their first encounter in box 5, almost unnaturally lean but moving in a way that suggested he was in complete control of his body.

After a while, the air around her changed, grew so warm that she repeatedly had to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand. Then a bright light pierced the dark, it seemed to float in the air by its own accord. She blinked and tiredly rubbed her eyes but when she opened them again, the flame was still there. The closer they drew, the more the light illuminated and finally she could see that the walls on either side of her opened up to offer a view of a dark, still lake.

"Don't make me remind you again not to dawdle, Madame," the ghost said and although her body ached and complained, she pushed herself forward at greater speed.

When she at last arrived by the water, she realised that her fatigued mind combined with eyes that had suffered an extended period of black-out had conjured up the image of the floating flame. It was nothing more than a torch mounted to a mooring pole. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the little boat that was patiently awaiting them, but the sight of the ghost's eyes resting on her, was enough to suppress any form of hilarity.

"Move!" he commanded firmly and watched her scramble clumsily into the boat. Had she toppled over and fallen into the water, she was certain he'd have watched her drown without any emotional stirrings.

The little vessel rocked softly from side to side under the weight of her body but remained strangely still when he followed. Perhaps it had learned to bend to his will as well. With masterful strokes he pushed them away from the shore and within moments they were slipping deeper into the darkness until everything around her lost its shape once more.

She squeezed her eyes shut then and lowered her hand into the water beyond. It was cold, of course, icy to the point that it made her joints ache within minutes but in all this emptiness it was at least a reminder that she was still alive, that she was conscious.

"Not so brave now, are you, Madame?"

His voice floated to her from the bow of the boat. She withdrew her hand from the water and kept her mouth shut.

"Not so unlike… _Christine_ …are you?"

The emotion in his voice felt like a sigh trapped between her ribcage. It was uncomfortable and heavy yet filled with a kind of wistful beauty. Once again, she remained silent, her thoughts trailing to the letter still stored in her cloak, the letter that was filled with the same wistful sentiment, a letter that would, no doubt, enrage Erik further if he was to find it.

Hastily she pressed her fist to her mouth, stifling the pressing urge to laugh. It felt absurd to be thinking of him as "Erik" for the first time now that she was squeezed in this little boat with him, while the suffocating memory of Christine clung to them.  
The Vicomtesse had been the first to use his name but until now, Julianne hadn't been able to bring herself to do the same. He had appeared too deranged, too dangerous to earn a title other than "the ghost". But now that he ached before her, now that he had - however involuntarily – laid bare some of the tragedy that dwelled inside him, she felt she had finally encountered Erik.

"Oh, at first she behaved differently of course the treacherous wench. How adoringly she watched me with her doe eyes as my voice carried us to my house. No, I won't speak of that initial passage. It is like a stain on an otherwise pristine piece of art, Madame. Yes…yes, I know what you're thinking but even the greatest atrocity can be viewed as a piece of art."

She allowed him to talk without interruption, sensing that he likely wouldn't have taken notice had she made herself heard.

"But the second time…the second and the third time when I brought her down here she behaved exactly as you do now. Frozen like a statue, frightened into obedience."

He laughed though from where she was sitting it seemed that his mouth remained shut. It was difficult to tell, of course, but she felt the hollow sound more than she heard it, as if it poured out of his rigid frame straight into hers. She drew her cloak closer around her and closed her eyes again, doubting her own sanity if she tried to make sense of the man in front of her another moment longer.

Thankfully, he seemed to have reached the end of his strange soliloquy and without his voice demanding her attention it was almost too easy to be lulled into a false sense of security. The boat swayed steadily from side to side and the sound of the water as it caressed the wood or gently sloshed against some further away stones was soothing.

But when the boat suddenly bumped against something much closer, jerking her body forward, she remembered that despite the exhaustion she felt, she was still in grave danger. Erik stepped out onto the little dock, moored the boat and then started disappearing into what Julianne could only describe as a hole in a wall. He didn't turn around to see if she was following and with nowhere to run, it appeared he was right in assuming she would come sooner or later.

The pole that he had used to propel them forward, could have been her tool to escape, but it seemed to be coated in something that, upon closer inspection, looked like dried blood. Even so, she knew that her strength would fail her before she had crossed the lake halfway and after her ordeal in the darkness, she did not much fancy her chances of finding a way out of the labyrinthine passageways.

She disembarked onto the dock with an unsurprising lack of grace and winced as the aged wood tore some skin off her hands as she was trying to cushion her fall. She didn't have the energy to blink back the tears that pooled in her eyes and staggered forward towards the hole through which Erik had disappeared.

She could see now that the hole was, in fact, a simple doorway that had been chiselled into the elaborate stone wall. It was an odd invitation into a place that seemed otherwise as well defended as any castle she had seen in England. Her legs threatening to cave in underneath her, she stopped and leaned against the doorway to rest. As her eyes adjusted further to the dark, aided by a handful of torches mounted on the walls around her, she realised the destruction that lay before her.

There was no clear, discernible path leading to the black leather sofa that appeared to be the only piece of furniture intact. Instead, there were mountains of broken stone, shards of glass, shavings of marble, bronze and gold out of which peeked ripped apart documents, torn images and a whole assortment of foreign looking objects.

"Do come inside, Madame Doucet."

His voice snaked around her before he, himself, appeared. Her mind had been too busy processing that this was, indeed, a house to notice that there were large, mahogany double doors dividing the main room into even quarters. Erik had emerged from the ones directly opposite her, having seemingly discarded his cloak, hat and gloves. His fingers, now freed, were long, pale and spindly, and scurried over everything in their path like eager spider legs as he made his way towards her.

Too repulsed to watch another moment, she turned her head away and inhaled sharply through her nostrils.

"Don't tell me this ghost hunt isn't to your satisfaction anymore, Madame."

He had reached her, was towering over her and yet she refused to meet his eyes. She didn't care that he could see the tears that were streaking down her cheeks.

"That would be a particular shame after all the trouble you went through to find me."

He raised his hand in so unexpected a movement that it caught her attention and made her automatically jerk her head in his direction. But his hand remained where it was, suspended in the air, too immobile to strike her, too high to caress her. His eyes burned with something quite unidentifiable.

"It appears I have praised you for your punctuality too soon."

Nothing more than a quiet hiss as he lowered his hand, exposing to her the deep gash that ran through it like a fat, protruding vein.

"Your stubbornness has made me quite late and so all the plans I have for you must wait until tomorrow."

Her chin trembled as more tears flooded over it.

"To your left you will find a chamber to sleep in."

She turned automatically, yearning to remove herself from his close proximity.

"I am certain you won't make any attempts to escape. I shan't save you again."

She laughed tiredly and tumbled across another mountain of debris to the only room that did not stand at a symmetrical angle to the others. It was large and silent and appeared to be made entirely out of glass. An odd design but she was too tired to question it further or to expect finding something ordinary in his house.

Retreating to the farthest corner of the room where she could still see the flickering light of the torch outside being reflected all around her, she lowered her aching body onto the floor and curled up, tucking her cloak around herself. As her fingers clumsily removed the letters and shoved them painfully down the bodice of her black dress, it occurred to her fleetingly how odd it was that the man unafraid of killing, had appeared reluctant to touch her.


	11. A Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos!!

Chapter 10:

The cat's blue eyes watched him as he paced through the room. It had been nothing more than a couple of minutes since he had instructed Madame Doucet to spend the night in the torture chamber. A rather amusing idea of his yet he had only had mere minutes to congratulate himself on it, before the restlessness had set in.

It was a laughable matter, really, but it irked him that he had not considered what to do next. Even when _her_ actions had angered him into impulsivity, he had felt to be flying by some kind of code, however immoral. But now, despite his threatening announcement, he did not know what to do.

Madame Doucet was here, she was broken and at his mercy but whatever next?

Without much consideration, he undid the golden cufflinks and rolled up his shirt sleeves to expose his bruise-riddled arms. Morphine would be a welcome distraction but God only knew what kind of uncalculated actions it would inspire him to do. Peace of mind was one thing, bad appearances were chuckled at the irony of the sentiment and roughly rolled the sleeves back down.

An ugly man concerned with appearances, now that was something truly laughable.

He flexed his left hand, then shook it, trying to chase away some of the numbness that had suddenly befallen it again. Since _her_ departure he hadn't suffered a single attack and wouldn't it be funny if his heart condition would now take a turn for the worse? Women in close proximity to him seemed to have that effect and that really was the crux of the matter. He truly did despise women in his house, yet _somehow_ they kept turning up. How right Javert seemed to have been, nicknaming him Don Juan.

Once more he laughed but the Siamese cat that made up his sole audience, only lifted up one of her chocolate-coloured paws and gave it a lazy lick. At last, he stopped his pacing and sank down on the bed by her side. He was still incensed at Madame Doucet's tactless investigation of his person. It had been flattering at the beginning but to dismantle his network of suppliers and confidants was quite unacceptable. She deserved some kind of punishment, something that would make her see the error of her ways.

His pale, slender hands stilled on his knees and a slow, terrible smile sprawled across his face. It really was quite simple. All he had to do was keep her here, tolerate her presence at his house, lock her up and out of sight if need be. In her absence, Moreau would quickly bend to his will and the opera house would fall silent. By the time she emerged again, if ever she did, there would be no business to run anymore. Surely there could be no harsher punishment?

Everything would be blissfully quiet and without music _she_ would at last start to fade. For the time being, he chose to ignore the truth, denying the power _she_ still held. Given the right circumstances, it was easy enough to delude oneself.

Satisfied with himself and his decision, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and laid them out on his bed, followed by his dress pants. Then he walked into the adjacent bathroom of green marble and washed himself, pondering what a great inconvenience it was to have no further pieces of furniture. At this rate, his clothes would be wrinkled and damp within hours and that really wouldn't do.

The thought so occupied him that even when he had succumbed to the comfortable linens and soft pillows of his bed, his mind refused to find rest. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling while the darkness thrummed around him, voices whispered into his ear and his hand lazily combed the line of Ayesha's spine. Had he not been so familiar with the sensation, he would have deemed it impossible to feel nothing and everything at once.

At times he wondered what had become of _Christine_ , if it had been _her_ who had chosen to reject him even in death – for he had firmly believed he was dying. Or if it had been the parting blow of a jealous fiancé, intend on protecting the love of his life – an action Erik would not only resent but secretly also admire the Vicomte for.

Pursuing those thoughts, however, conjured up an image of _her_ face so vivid it appeared to be within his reach if only he lifted his hand and stretched out his fingers. It brought back tantalising memories of soft lips pressed against his own, a kind of caress so rare and novel that the memory alone still brought him to his knees. The sweet touch of her small, warm hand running up his back, fingers weaving through his hair.

Oh, how much more it hurt now to exist, knowing that _she_ would never touch him like that again, that nobody would.

In the moments when he wasn't driven by rage, he just felt so tired, tired enough to die and yet… It was as if some greater entity had decided he still had a role to play in some concluding passage. How silly, how torturous…had he not long ago accepted that he was too old and too damaged to start anew?

* * *

A hiss accompanied by several curse words awoke him. Pushing himself up on his elbows he surveyed the room and assessed his body for the various aches it seemed to house.

"Erik!"

The voice made him sit up straighter and nearly tempted him to utter a string of choice words as well. Under much protest from his body, he shifted out of the bed, reached for the black satin robe that threatened to slide of its edge and strode out into the sitting room. A long time ago, the image of his cat wrapped viciously around the Persian's ankle might have made him laugh. Today, his presence came as even more of a nuisance.

"I do not recall inviting you, Daroga. Quite the opposite, actually."

"So you keep saying," Nadir replied whose face was set in a grim line until the cat's claws hit a rather sensitive spot and he winced, "but I needed a word."

Erik laughed coldly and strode to the cabinet from which he retrieved a can of caviar, sufficient enough to distract the feline. "I presume there is something new you disapprove of."

He meandered back to the samovar and lit it, keeping his back to the Persian.

"Disapprove?" his friend repeated, sounding aghast. "Yes, I daresay I disapprove of murder, Erik."

"Murder?" he glanced over his shoulder to offer a saccharine, innocent smile before his eyes fell onto the darkened torture chamber.

From his position he could just make out Madame Doucet's curled up form on the ground, still enough not to attract Nadir's attention. Why didn't she move? Suspiciously he narrowed his eyes, waited for her to push herself off the ground and start a mindless sprint towards freedom. Surely all instincts were yelling at her to run?

"I know your handiwork when I see it!"

He faintly registered that Nadir sounded angrier than usual.

"I'm not following," he responded undeterred, pouring the tea into two cups and offering one to him. But Nadir only stared at it darkly and shook his head.

"No, perhaps you're not. Perhaps you have truly ceased to have scruples."

"Morality is such a charming notion," Erik hummed to himself and slowly lifted the cup to his lips while balancing the second one delicately in his other hand.

"And yet utterly lost on you. I feel this is partially my fault…for persuading you to come to Mazandaran, for exposing you to opium which ended up twisting your mind further. So I shall assume full responsibility, Erik."

"That sounds almost like a threat, Daroga."

Erik slowly lowered both cups and glanced in the direction of the torture chamber once more.

Madame Doucet still hadn't moved.

The Persian still hadn't noticed her.

"Perhaps it is," Nadir quietly responded, "you could have achieved such greatness."

"And I have, but greatness does not equal love."

"And the deprivation of love does not justify your actions, my friend. If you would show remorse at least…I could…" He swallowed and stopped, seemed unable to get the words out. "The man you murdered? He was married…he had children. Where is the man that played with my Reza with all the patience of a saint? Where is the generous man, paying far more at the bazaar than was necessary just to provide for a poor family?"

Erik's hand dropped to his side; his fingers clamped around his leg. Something lifted off his chest, something broke free, dismantled him, caused him to come undone just as she had done that day in the manager's office. Music was tickling the edges of his fingertips.

"Enough…" he panted, his voice ragged and rough.

"I hope you'll remember soon, Erik," Nadir spoke softly now and if he wasn't mistaken a smile was even lighting up his kind eyes, "but if you don't, I'll make sure you won't hurt another soul."


	12. Aftermath

Chapter 11:

Sleep had claimed her several times that night despite her desperate attempts to stay awake. But it was an uneasy sleep she had fallen into, one inspired by physical exhaustion rather than feelings of actual safety. Her thoughts didn't slow down and instead created a stream of strange dreams from which she startled awake time and time again, when a particular sound was loud enough to pierce through the mist that otherwise surrounded her brain.

She could hardly remember how many dazed seconds she had spent peering into the dark around her, trying to discern the source of the noise. But most of the time her attempts were met by silence until now, when it was very clearly a man's voice she heard. He was angrily cursing something, yet he sounded far less threatening than a few whispered words from her captor had done.

She listened intently, lifted her head only marginally so that her eyes could peek out from behind the curtain of dark hair that had tumbled out of its restraints. Behind the wall that separated them she could hear the man raging and calling out for the ghost, but as desperate as she was to see him, to ascertain whether he was an accomplice or possibly the key to her freedom, the wall that she now realised was truly a mirror, kept stoically showing her her own frightened reflection.

Slowly, she lowered her head again and tried to breathe calm into her body, a monumental task since all of her muscles seemed tense and poised, ready to make her leap off the floor should the occasion arise. But rather than being offered a window of opportunity, she was treated to a strange conversation between the two men that mentioned people and places meaningless to her. But at least the other man, Daroga, appeared not to condemn the murder. Perhaps, if only she dared to make her presence known, he would help her. Or perhaps the ghost would simply kill them both. He did not seem to possess enough of a conscience to act otherwise.

So she remained on the floor, every part of her frightened and cramped up in pain, holding her breath as the conversation dwindled, footsteps faded away and a suffocating silence fell all around her. She hardly dared to breathe now, squeezed her eyes shut and waited. For the longest time nothing happened. She was trapped in a vacuum of her own racing heartbeat and the infinite spectrum of terrible scenarios. It was remarkable that she somehow managed to keep breathing.

"How curious you are."

His voice was close, too close, like an intimate touch administered without consent.

"Did you not wish to run?"

Her chest expanded painfully and her next intake of air sounded more like a gulp, or a groan or a gag.

"Perhaps you know it is futile. Or perhaps you hope to outsmart me?"

Menacing; she had never known a voice to cut like his.

"Please, Monsieur, you have me locked up. Do not taunt me as well."

The last time she had heard herself reduced to such pleading and weakness had been at Édouard's bedside; now life was also slipping through her fingers.

When he didn't respond, she somehow found the strength to tilt her head up and look at him, mere inches away from her that he was. The mask he wore today was black and cold, revealing even less of his face than the white one had done. Looking at it was chilling and yet she didn't need to see his mouth to know that her remark had somehow hit him. His strange, amber eyes were brimming over with a mixture of fear, sadness and recollection. And even though he was looking directly at her, she knew that he did not see.

"Forgive my manners." His answer came stiffly and sounded like a recitation of something that had been drummed into him a long time ago. "It's been a while since I last entertained guests. You must be hungry."

Although the thought of food repulsed her, she was too disconcerted by his strange turn in behaviour to refuse, and when she dragged herself to her feet, he nodded in approval and walked back into the room from which he had emerged.

She staggered after him, her stomach pinching angrily in protest, her vision swimming from time to time while the man before her appeared to treat the rubble as if it was a clear corridor, as if nothing extraordinary was blocking his path.

_Madame Doucet,_

_I hope you will forgive my husband's previous correspondence. He continues to fear for my safety and, therefore, his dismissive words truly just mask his concern and love for me. But he could never hold on to a secret, at least he could not keep one from me, not even as a boy and so the minute his letter had left the estate, he confessed to intercepting my letters and answering on my behalf._

_The man you speak of, Erik, has caused us great grievances in the past, as I am certain you're aware of by now, and we had hoped to leave him behind in France. But truthfully, I feel his presence wherever I go and perhaps the same could be said for my husband. Be that however it may, neither one of us had expected to be confronted with him as openly as you have done in your letter. Perhaps we had both believed him dead by now._

_I fully appreciate your concern and the difficulty of the situation you are faced with, but I fear I am unable to divulge any more details than those, I understand, Madame Giry has already chosen to convey. Our relationship was complicated and I fear I'd be doing my loving husband, as well as my sweet son, a great injustice should I speak of it again. It would be a terrible betrayal of their trust and kindness and I do care for them greatly._

_Know it will be very difficult to oppose him, for if he is truly determined he will let nothing stand in his way. I would urge you to follow his wishes but I can see why they would harm the Opera and why your personal entanglements make you equally determined to stand your ground. It worries me that he would do anything so destructive, for if there is one thing he loved deeply it was his creation, his opera house._

_Erik is a peculiar man, holding all this world's contradictions within him. He is a spectre as much as he is of flesh and blood, able to make you see a world you might otherwise not have believed possible. He is a scholar, a musician and possesses an astounding intellect. He loves passionately and fully, crosses boundaries he is not even aware of since he so often seems incapable to distinguish between right and wrong. Yet do not mistake me, he has a strange moral code which he follows to the letter. You must conduct yourself with grace and dignity around him and never dare to be discourteous for he shall fly into a terrible rage! But do not let his strength and anger frighten and deceive you, he is a sick and lonely man, desperate to be at peace. And for all the gifts he has given me, for everything he has allowed me to see, I just as desperately wish for him to realise his dreams._

_Now, I have said entirely too much and I must apologise once more for being unable to help you further. I pray you'll be careful and safe, Madame. I am certain your husband is watching over you as mine is watching over me._

_With much love,_

_Christine de Chagny_

"Do take a seat while I prepare another cup of tea. I must admit I don't have much else available at present though I shall remedy that, of course."

He gestured for her to sit on the sofa and she followed dutifully, as per the Vicomtesse's instructions, very cautious not to offend him. As she watched him prepare the drink, she thought him absolutely mad. Nothing about him screamed of the remarkable genius that had been described in the letter and for a moment, she doubted the woman's own sanity. Lord knows how the horrors she'd had to face had affected her.

"Don't mistake my hospitality for weakness, Madame," he suddenly spoke again and turned around to present her with a cup of tea, "you are still very much a prisoner. But, as you rightly pointed out, there is no need for me to mock you or treat you with the disrespect _you_ have shown me in the past month."

She hurriedly lowered her eyes to her lap, unable to withstand his burning gaze. She had been a fool to underestimate him when truly he was so palpably angry.

"You are quite silent now, Madame, but thankfully that is a welcome change. If you remember, all I ever asked for was _silence_!"

His furious bellows bounded off the walls around them and made her shrink back against the sofa, the tea cup chattering noisily on its saucer. Once again she recalled the contents of the letter and realised with fear and dismay that she had inadvertently broken the one thing Erik had most been hoping for: peace.

"Bread and preserves will be satisfactory no doubt."

He placed both items as well as a blunt knife on the ground in front of her and then righted himself with one swift, elegant move.

"Now I must take my leave and have a quick, quiet word with Monsieur Moreau. But do not fret, I shall return with a present for you as well. Wouldn't want the daroga to suspect I wasn't treating you well now would we?"

She swallowed down a gulp of tea with great difficulty and shook her head. He seemed to snatch the felt hat out of thin air and directed his steps towards the hole in the wall that led to the boat.

"Upon my return I expect you to be out of my sight, Madame."

His whispered words in her ear startled her so much that she spilled scalding hot tea all over herself yet she did not dare curse or yelp since any sound might result in punishment. Biting her lips, she let the tears cool her cheeks and once she'd set down the cup, she lifted up her dark skirts that clung stubbornly to her legs.

Balancing hope and despair was becoming increasingly exhausting and at that moment she was longing for it all to stop. She wanted nothing more than go back to being Monsieur Doucet's widow, restricted to her life in the _Rue de Vaugirard_ , ignorant and cloaked in grief and not responsible for anything at all.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she barely registered the feline that first sniffed her bread curiously and then pressed her soft body against her legs. Only when the cat kept up her stubborn search for attention did she notice her, gasping softly in surprise.

"Bonjour," she whispered, her voice sounding less raw thanks to the small amount of tea she had consumed.

But the feline barely lifted her head to acknowledge her presence and instead kept pressing herself against her legs. Once more Julianne realised that it was much easier to think of him as a ghost or a murderer, somebody cold and unfeeling and certainly not a man who would care for a kitten. But here the cat was, wearing a large jewel on her collar, a clear sign that the masked stranger held great affection for her.

"You will keep me company, won't you?" Julianne asked, rising unsteadily to her feet.

A long time ago, when she'd still been a girl, she would've taken great curiosity exploring the scattered, half-broken belongings that lay everywhere but now she was relieved to desert this room with her life intact.

She scooped up her tea cup, the bread and preserves and knife and carefully made her way back to the room she had slept in, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to see if the cat was following her. She was in desperate need of comfort and she was willing to accept it in any shape or size.


	13. Madame Doucet's Fury

Chapter 12:

Something soft and strange coaxed her out of her sleep. She couldn't place it though her exhausted mind tried to argue that it sounded both foreign and familiar. She sat up slowly and unsteadily, using the wall for support. She hadn't been dreaming, she realised. In the darkness around her she could just make out the opened jar of preserves, the knife and the teacup. No sign of the cat.

Then the violin began to sing again, wove its sad tune around her and chased all other thoughts away. Somehow she'd risen to her feet, the movements had barely registered. Something rough scratched against her abdomen but she knew not to investigate or remove it. Instead, she picked up her skirts that were stiff and damp and clearly not made for underground dwelling, and slowly moved towards the door.

The violin's music still filled the air, clung to every corner, its melody shifting, altering at every turn while still somehow retaining the same mournful theme. It wasn't beautiful yet it was compelling in its ugliness. It grasped her, dug itself under her skin and painfully lifted up layer after layer of grief until she finally felt able to breathe again.

The violin was weeping. How had she not noticed it before? And so, too, was she. She could barely manage to stand. Sobs tore from her throat, angry and hateful, confronting her with feelings she wished to have kept buried.

Resentment at having been abandoned, frustration that a career had always been priority, outrage at the stubbornness that had cost him his life. If only he had valued her enough to respect her opinion. If only he had been willing to pause, to think of _her_ and what would become of her if this "slight cold" turned out to be a deadly disease instead.

Chicken pox, contracted while trying to help his friend Jules Ferry revolutionise the education sector.

Chicken pox, contracted from spending time with children rather than considering conceiving his own with his wife.

Chicken pox!

Laughter broke the flow of the music, harsh, unforgiving and hideous. Amber eyes found hers, pierced her with disapproval and curiosity until she realised that it had been her who had produced that dreadful sound. Her hand clamped over her mouth but it was too late. There was a witness now, somebody who knew that she was not mourning her husband the way she was meant to, that she was harbouring feelings that were quite unforgivable.

He didn't speak yet, for which she was oddly grateful, but kept watching her, his bow suspended in mid-air. The man who had taken her, who had killed to make the music stop was standing before her, making a violin sing.

She laughed again, the sound reminiscent of the one the Opera Ghost had first elicited at the premiere of _Robert le Diable_.

Something dark gripped her, an emotion too powerful to control and carried her across the rubble towards him. She reached for his violin, tried yanking it out of his grasp but he wouldn't comply.

"Shall we make the music stop, Monsieur?" she yelled, clawing at the instrument that offended her so.

Erik remained infuriatingly quiet while observing her with a growing sense of curiosity.

"Answer me!" she demanded. "You have been so loquacious before, giving your little speeches, mocking me at every turn. And what now? Am I not behaving the way you'd like me to? Would you prefer me calm and measured and of good demeanour?"

She pushed him angrily so that the instrument dug into his body but still he did not speak.

"Oh you infuriate me!"

Once more she reached for the violin, yearned to fling it onto the ground, to stamp on it. She wanted him to hurt, to feel the hell he had put her through.

"Perhaps you would like to help yourself to a different object," he addressed her suddenly with a kind of measured calm she had not expected, "you will find a rather big selection at your feet."

Something in those words slowed the hurricane of rage that had entrapped her, it made her pause long enough to survey the space in front of her once again.

Everything was broken.

Now that she was looking at it, it was so obvious that she wondered how on earth she had not noticed it before. It wasn't just a random assortment of objects, haphazardly dropped onto the floor, discarded by a man who possessed the temperament of a bored child. These were possessions, personal belongings of a man who - for some inexplicable reason- had been unable to possess anything else.

And they were all broken.

The sadness of the realisation washed the remaining shreds of anger away. "I hope you'll forgive me, Monsieur, I lost control over myself."

How absurd it was to apologise to him, how tired she was.

Uninvited, she sank down on his sofa, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them in a comforting way she had not engaged in since being a child. She felt his amber eyes resting on her still and quickly squeezed her eyes shut.

"I don't take well to captivity, Monsieur," she muttered against her knees, "or to lack of sleep."

It was like a world gone mad in which she made excuses for a perfectly understandable behaviour to a man who'd been nothing more than violent and insufferable. Suddenly the Vicomtesse did not seem so mad anymore. As a matter of fact she seemed remarkably strong and courageous for having suffered the same fate and still mustering the ability to offer understanding for a man who deserved a lot less.

She truly was not Christine Daaé.

She felt him take a seat by her side, then something cold touched her arm. She opened her eyes slowly and with great reluctance, dreading to see whatever he was confronting her with next. But it was only another cup of tea, balancing delicately on the palm of his left hand. His other hand was resting on his thigh again, but she knew that it had been grazing her arms moments ago. He was not wearing his gloves, but in the faintly illuminated room his hand suddenly seemed less repulsive. It seemed ordinary even, five long fingers on every hand, one pinky adorned with an opulent ring in whose centre a jade stone had been nestled.

She smiled tiredly though she didn't know why, accepted the tea cup and lifted it to her lips. A sweet scent infiltrated her nostrils and had her closing her eyes yet again.

"Women seem to favour sweet flavours," he explained with that same air of rigid formality, "I expect you'll enjoy the apple tea more."

A few hours ago she might have refused a sip, might have suspected some sort of drug or poison as punishment for her outburst. But in that moment she only felt tiredness, tiredness and the desperate desire to be looked after. If this cup indeed contained some poison as well as apple tea, she was willing to accept it.

Sighing deeply, she took a mouthful and relaxed as it ran down her throat, soothing some of the rawness like honey.

"You are right," she at last answered hoarsely, "this is delicious."

A strange kind of silence spread out between them, comforting somehow yet peculiar given the circumstances.

"You are angry with your husband, you feel betrayed because he has left you behind."

He spoke with such certainty that she wondered, not for the first time, if he was capable of reading her mind.

"Been investigating in my house, have you?" she asked with apathetic frustration.

"No, I had other things to take care of."

_Like murder!_ She wanted to snap but settled for pinching her nose instead. She wanted the silence to return.

"Your…outburst seemed familiar."

She tilted her chin up while her eyes swept across the room once more. Was he truly comparing the loss of her husband to the loss of a woman he had killed for and who had not spent a voluntary second in his presence?

She noticed finely painted objects beneath the rubble, sheets of music half burned, a little white mask, small enough to fit the measurements of a child.

Perhaps the comparison wasn't so absurd after all. Death wasn't the only reason for someone to grieve.

"Still you are a damn hypocrite."

He hummed in acknowledgement and something in his eyes told her that he was smiling. What a crazy world she had wandered into and yet, for just this moment, she was content to sit there with him, side by side, too worn out to address the chaos that continued to reign inside them.

"Perhaps you would like a blanket and a pillow to feel more comfortable," he offered after a while when her tea cup was nearly empty.

She chuckled because she did not know of an appropriate response.

"A cage can feel bigger given certain…precautions."

She watched him curiously, tried to dissect the odd statement but he had already risen to his feet and she surmised that he would not grant her another glimpse into his life. Perhaps that was just as well, for she hardly knew what she was doing.


	14. Cohabitation

Chapter 13:

He watched her return to the torture chamber where she made her bed on the floor and long after her body had settled down sufficiently enough, he remained on the leather sofa in the sitting room, staring at her sleeping form. How odd that her anger should soothe him in the end, how perplexing that he had not killed her then and there when she had been threatening to break the only instrument still intact, the only instrument that beckoned to him ruthlessly.

Perhaps it was her unpredictability that made her so calming to him. Everything else was nothing more than a painful reminder of the past. Nadir's warning, Moreau's diligent acceptance of a ghost and its power that was reminiscent of Poligny's. All of that had felt so sickeningly familiar, as if the faces had changed but the cycle was always the same.

No wonder then that Christine's voice had arisen from the silence once more, teased and taunted him like a siren waiting for him to drown. He rubbed his fingertips against each other, felt the grooves the strings had left behind. He had silenced _her_ again, smothered _her_ with his anger and Madame Doucet had felt it, responded to it. She had not listened to the piece with awe and objective appreciation, no, she had felt it, every last note of it.

He hadn't expected it to affect her so, he hadn't expected anything when that desire to play had gripped him. But the bottom line was that the music had triggered something in her that she had tried to bury, just as it had forced something out of him that he had been trying to deny.

His thoughts trailed back into his past and the handful of other people he had engaged with. Had they ever truly shared something?

Christine had possessed the same amount of passion for music and the arts, but she had never been his equal because he had not allowed her to be, too great had his fear been that too much freedom would enable her to flee. Now that was a twist of irony he could appreciate far less. Then there were those who had expressed an understanding for his situation, such as Giovanni or Nadir once upon a time, but that still did not compare to the strange moment he had encountered with Madame Doucet tonight.

It was as if, without needing words, she had experienced his very feelings, had given words and actions to them, something that was unprecedented until then. Her susceptibility to music astounded him, primarily because most of the other managers he'd had the misfortune of meeting had shown no signs of interest in or knowledge of opera, not to mention the ones that had been completely tone-deaf. Though, of course, the comparison might be called unjust since the previous managers had not been privy to _his_ music. It was hard imagining anyone unable to appreciate _that._

He did appreciate the irony, however, that the woman whose sole presence had felt utterly disruptive the previous night, now turned out to be a source of calmness. Humming pensively to himself, he stretched out on the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other and stared at the three tea cups on the ground. Two visitors in such a short amount of time, was he becoming popular in his old age? His lips quirked into a grin.

As if in response to his silent question and to remind him of her own presence in the house, Ayesha appeared from the bedroom and jumped up onto his lap. He petted her absent-mindedly and reached for the brown paper packet lying on the armrest. Pensively he turned it around in his hands, once in a while casting a glance at Madame Doucet's sleeping figure.

Still, he did not know what to do with this newly-acquired knowledge, but it gripped him with a strange sense of fascination to learn more and to recreate the moment. He pictured himself with all the power of a puppet master, able to manipulate the strings that would prompt this reaction and then that reaction from her. Power was an old friend he easily realised. Sadly for Erik, it was also capable of blinding him to the potential for kinship.

* * *

The next morning he awoke in an awkward position on the sofa, his neck stiff and aching. The unopened brown paper packet had slid out of his hands and off his chest into the crack between the seat and the cushion. He picked it up again and returned it to the armrest, fed the cat to silence her noisy calls for attention, washed himself and then the teacups and saucers.

The wrinkled state of his frock vexed him but hopefully he would soon be supplied with a new batch. The loss of the merchant was unfortunate but his courier would surely find him a new one, provided that Madame Giry had found and passed on his note. His fingers halted in the middle of buttoning up a crisp new shirt. Surely she wouldn't dare to disobey his orders?

He considered this possibility carefully, but the more he thought about it the more ludicrous it became. She had not disappointed him in the past and with Madame Doucet in his grasp, she would not try to disappoint him now.

His mind at ease once more, he finished dressing himself and strode back out into the sitting room where Madame Doucet's appearance momentarily caught him off-guard. Christine would not have dared to leave her room, he thought, before reminding himself that he was dealing with someone who had the potential to be strikingly different.

She looked dreadfully tired and unkempt, her hair wild and tangled like a bird's nest, her hands dirty and crusted, her face red, dry and irritated. They watched each other tensely from their respective corners of the room, neither stepping forward nor initiating a conversation, both of them trying to assess the best course of action. Without the fatigue and curiosity that had made the moment of truce possible the previous night, they seemed at a loss of how to relate to one another.

"I acquired food for you yesterday as well as new garments from the costume atelier. Perhaps you would like to wash up and dress yourself before breakfast?"

She sized him up with surprise, then inclined her head and took a careful step forward. Holding her gaze, he indicated his own room. "You will find everything you should require there."

With that he turned away from her and meandered to the samovar to make his first cup of tea. Her presence suddenly felt foreign and uncomfortable again and he cursed the Persian for getting under his skin with his obnoxious mumbling about old times and past actions. Slowly sipping at the hot liquid, he listened to the whisper of garments grazing the floor, the melody of footsteps and sloshing water. It felt odd to imagine that for the majority of people these sounds were part of their daily routine, it felt odd to have someone else live in this house who did not expect him to be all powerful and invincible. It felt odd just being Erik while having someone nearby to witness it.

"Where would you like me to leave my old dress?"

Her voice came from behind him and he slowly set the teacup down on the ground.

"Preferably somewhere on the floor so that it won't dirty anything," he answered guardedly, "I will see to it being burned imminently."

Her hand flew to her mouth in a gesture that betrayed her nervousness.

"Perhaps you oughtn't to dispose of it, Monsieur, my maid would find it most odd should I return without it."

"Does she keep an inventory?" he asked with a chuckle, ignoring the silent question in her previous statement that he had very well perceived.

She wondered if he would ever let her go alive, a question to which he hadn't yet formed an answer himself.

"Yes, she is rather particular."

She offered him a careful smile in return and gently lowered the dark dress onto the floor by the doorway.

"You will find fresh bread and preserves in the cabinet over there," he pointed to the object on which Ayesha had taken a seat.

Then he turned his attention towards the samovar, poured her a fresh cup of tea and listened to her footsteps while she went to retrieve the food.

"She's very beautiful," Madame Doucet spoke up again and he glanced briefly in her direction to smile at Ayesha. "What pretty markings."

He watched her extend a hand towards the cat, braced himself for the vicious attack that was sure to follow and was almost shocked when the feline accepted the light caress.

"Yes, no doubt they would have got her into trouble, had I not found her."

"Monsieur?" she frowned, clutching the toast while stepping closer.

"Someone would most certainly have skinned her and used her fur, Madame," he answered simply.

She had the good grace to pale and then glanced nervously between the brown paper packet on the armrest and the spot on the sofa he was currently occupying.

"She was a street cat then?"

"Yes," he nodded and shifted a little bit to the right to grant her more space.

"We had many of those in Bristol," she sighed, finally sinking down, "they were frequently drowned in the harbour. I'm glad your cat did not meet a similarly terrible fate."

"I have no respect for people who think animals are beneath them, as if they had no soul. Drowning a cat…humankind at its most atrocious, I am certain."

He caught her curious gaze and returned it with a dark one of his own which thankfully made her avert her eyes and focus on the food in her hand instead. Silence, uncomfortable and lingering, fell between them and filled him with insufferable tension. All the lessons about hospitality and courtesy Madeleine had taught him, compelled him to engage her in polite conversation, yet he knew, of course, that doing so would be utterly absurd.

"I understand that I am not meant to leave, Monsieur." He slowly tilted his head towards her. "But I was hoping you'd allow me to pass my time somehow."

One eyebrow quirked up beneath the mask. Was she trying to play him for a fool? Or was she being serious?

"If you wish to make yourself useful, you could always tidy up my house," he answered wryly, testing her reaction. Her placid smile only irritated him further.

"If you wish I could try, and perhaps in return I could request a book or two?"

First a nurse then a housekeeper. The notion was so ludicrous that it made him laugh which, he was glad to see, still made her shiver.

"If that is how you wish to spend your time," he granted at last, rising to his feet. "I shall fetch some books from the library for you."

She dutifully inclined her head and avoided his gaze which made him chuckle once again.

"Wishing to spend one's last hours tidying, how very amusing."


	15. Hope

Chapter 14:

His parting words ghosted around her head even when the soft sound of water splashing up against stone had subsided. It had become apparent to her that he really did not know how to interact with another person, had almost grown accustomed to the strange courtesy he displayed one time, then an obvious discomfort the next. What truly disappointed and frightened her were his violent mood swings and needless threats that placed her body under unnecessary tension and conjured up reckless plans of escape. Exploring the route the man called the daroga had taken beckoned her – for he could not have used the boat- but she tried to soothe her wild instincts by reminding herself that someone like Erik had surely taken certain precautions that would not allow her an easy departure. Her best chance was to stay there, reason with the man behind the murderer and hope it would be enough, a strategy that was difficult to endure when the rest of her was screaming to run.

Taking a deep breath, she looked around the house that was once more illuminated by a handful of torches and the mess that she had offered to clean up. It felt almost more suffocating without his presence, made her fear what kind of objects and secrets she would encounter throughout her work.

"You will keep me company, won't you?" she addressed the Siamese cat who lifted her head and then lowered it back upon her crossed paws. "Or perhaps you won't," she muttered in her direction and pulled herself up into a standing position.

The bread she had consumed wasn't enough to sustain her for long, she knew, but she was determined to bite her tongue. She did not want to beg him for anything and secretly hoped that his weird sense of duty would compel him to protect her from malnourishment.

Hesitantly, she approached the nearest pile of rubble, deciding that she might as well begin there since everything looked the same. Sinking to her knees, she carefully lifted a broken piece of china from the top of the mountain. It was as beautiful as it was fragile, containing detailed, colourful depictions of birds and landscapes. The hairline crack that ran through it showed the path of destruction that had broken it in two. Brushing some dust away, she managed to locate the other half a little while later and gingerly held it up against the first. Perhaps with patience and skill they could be united.

If only she could hazard a guess what kind of reaction the proposal would prompt from the masked man. But it was impossible. His mood seemed capable of changing from one second to the next, making him patient during her outbursts and menacing during her tiredness. It no longer came as a surprise to her that Meg Giry had been trying to stop her mother from further interactions with him, nor was she unable to understand why she had been reluctant to pass on Christine's address. She surely had received a first-hand account of the events that had taken place in the past. It was only natural that she had wanted to protect her friend from being confronted yet again with the man who had clearly upset and abused her greatly. It was an even bigger testament to the Vicomtesse's strength of character and generosity then that she had found it in her heart to respond.

While Julianne's thoughts had wandered, her hands had kept busy filtering the items they encountered. She doubted that Erik possessed a container in which they could be distributed, but for now she would keep them like this. Rubble and dirt seemingly chiselled off the walls – although she was yet to spot the source- on one side to be discarded and objects that had retained their beauty despite the violent force that had broken them on the other.

It wasn't long before her hands found the small mask again. She stopped then, sat back and moved the mask around between her fingers. It felt soft and fragile, was made out of cloth and clearly stretched to its maximum capacity, almost like an ordinary piece of clothing a child had grown out of. She sighed and ran it through her fingers once again, stirring up ambivalent feelings of long abandoned dreams of motherhood and the sickening knowledge that for Erik life always seemed to have been limiting and constricting.

She glanced up from the little white mask to the house around her. No ordinary man could have built this, she realised. The craftsmanship was remarkable, of course, but it was doubtful that anyone else would have chosen this dark and dreary location. This could have only been the decision of a man who was used to solitude and who yearned for safety far away from the rest of humankind. It had to be a disfigurement or something of the like, for nothing else would warrant the mask, not even his temperamental behaviour. Holding it up into the light of the torches one last time, she finally pocketed it, forcing it down the top of her corset where it rested against the letters and acted as a kind of cushion against the hard wires that had been digging into her ribs.

It was almost reckless to keep hold of it, she knew, for surely he would miss something so poignant, but it served as the perfect reminder of his vulnerability and humanity, and should she find herself in the depth of despair once again or fearing for her life, the little mask resting against her chest would help her endure. She smiled then, knowing that Édouard would be proud of her. It had always been his strategy to try and rationalise his opponent's thoughts and actions so he may not get lost in the flurry of emotion instead.

Looking at the little piles in front of her, she shook herself out of her reverie and continued her work. There were more beautiful pieces of porcelain, of course, or figurines and papers burned to ashes, but nothing she encountered gripped and touched her quite like the mask had done.

"Perhaps I should not have supplied you with a new dress."

His voice startled her but she took great care not to let him see, dusted her hands off on the skirt of her dress and slowly turned around to find him leaning in the doorway.

"Yes, perhaps it would have been wise to wait," she acknowledged, "though I am grateful nonetheless."

His curious eyes narrowed as if he was assessing her honesty and then he walked with measured steps back to the black leather sofa.

"I assume that two books will suffice for now?"

"Two books will be plenty," she nodded and stood up.

Even one would have done the trick, offering her an escape route into another world. Nothing helped settle her quite as well as a good book. When surrounded by crowds of people and abandoned by Édouard at one social function or another, she'd often carried a little book with her, giving her something to do, somewhere to look at that wasn't uncomfortable. But then of course people had started to whisper and Édouard had advised her to stop this habit.

"Could I perhaps take a look?" she now asked tentatively, stepping closer to the sofa.

Erik leaned forward as if to inspect the work she had done and then dragged his shoulders up. Taking his reaction for a "yes", she sat down beside him and curiously studied the two leather-bound volumes.

"Crime and Punishment," she read out loud and drew a soft chuckle from the masked man.

"Rather an apt title, wouldn't you say?"

To her surprise she found herself smiling. "I might be inclined to agree, Monsieur, were you not insinuating that it was me guilty of crime and worthy of punishment."

She held her breath after having spoken so carelessly, expecting him to snatch the books away or worse. But instead he only laughed.

"You have quite the nerve to suggest otherwise, Madame."

She glanced at his eyes, still uncertain whether he was responding with true amusement, but when she could not detect any menace, she slowly relaxed against the cushions.

"And poetry," she said, deciding to abandon that topic nonetheless.

"Have I not satisfied your wishes?" he inquired dryly, draping one long leg over the other.

Julianne remained silent for a moment, thumbing through the pages.

"I have never been able to access poetry. Perhaps it is the shortness, but I've not yet discovered a poem that's gripped me quite like a novel."

"Then you are demonstrating once again that this Opera's management is lacking in taste."

"What a sweeping statement, Monsieur," she pointed out, unable to bite her tongue, "have you not shown nothing more than a taste for destruction. Where is your expertise?"

This time, his eyes flashed dangerously and she hurriedly stared down at the book in her lap.

"Certain matters don't require proof, Madame, just take my word for it."

His voice seemed to slither across her skin, cold and dangerous.

"As you wish," she responded, keeping her eyes downcast still, "I was merely hoping you'd supply me with an example."

"Don't lie!"

A low warning in her ear and she squeezed her eyes shut.

_"Let night fall, let the hours go by. The days pass on and here stand I. Love runs away. Like running water flows. Love flows away. But oh how slow life goes. How violent is hope. Love only knows."_

The quality of his voice instantly transformed, became something mournful; something softer took hold of it, coaxing the tension out of her body.

"Hope can be cruel indeed," she sighed before she could stop herself.

"Yes," he answered clipped and suddenly rose to his feet.

It was as if by lifting the tension from her shoulders, he had taken it upon himself.

"Now if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you returned to your room. I have important matters to attend to."

Sensing a dark mood descending upon him, she hurriedly followed his instructions, gathering the books and fleeing to the strange room she now had to call her own.


	16. Nocturne

Chapter 15:

The floor was beginning to put a strain on her back. It was cold and even but hard enough to make for a great deal of discomfort. Julianne had been trying to fall sleep for several hours now, ever since the last torch had died down, making reading impossible. But her mind had been unable to find peace and, in turn, she'd only been capable of listening to all the aches in her body.

How much longer would he keep her here? How many more days before Alexandre or Babette would grow concerned?

Slowly, she pulled herself into a sitting position, staring towards the other end of the room. It was impossible to see the door now, the small gap that offered a way out of her cage. Everything was one and the same. She closed her eyes then, fleeing to the darkness within herself which seemed less frightening at that moment. The poem Erik had recited flitted through her brain once more. How telling that he had chosen a line about the grievances of love. How very sad to see one man so consumed by it.

Yet try as she might, she could not deny that the sentiment resonated with her, too. The only thing crueller than love was hope. Julianne had experienced different nuances of both of them. Love for Édouard and foolish hope that he, prominent and influential, would return the feelings of a simple woman, one past her prime who had been overlooked many times before. Love for Édouard and foolish hope that he would recover when the blackness of death had clearly permeated the house.

She exhaled deeply, a manifestation of the guilt she'd carried since her outburst the previous night. The anger had appeared out of nowhere, overwhelming her and turning her into someone she hardly recognised. How dreadfully disappointed Édouard would be.

She heard it then for the first time, a soft sound, nothing more than a whimper. It grazed the edges of her consciousness, coaxed her eyes into opening once again. What a strange sound it had been.

She frowned and strained her ears to hear more, but everything remained silent for a couple of beats. Then a different sound followed. A groan, deep and guttural and, no doubt, pained. It quickened her heartbeat, turned her stomach.

Using the wall for support, she clambered to her feet and tiptoed blindly to the end of the room. There, she paused and listened once again. The groans returned, louder this time, swelling, rising into screams that made her blood run cold. Torture, torture to her senses.

She scrambled through the remains of his sitting room, over the mountains of broken objects she had previously been working on, losing her footing, falling to her knees. Cursing, she pulled herself upright once again, ignoring the pain that told her she had hurt herself. One more time she paused in the doorway to his bedroom, feeling strange and tactless to be entering his domain. But then he screamed again and she pushed on, feeling her way forwards until she found a seat next to him on the bed. Now that she was close she could see him writhing, could feel the cold sweat that had collected on his skin.

"Monsieur? Monsieur, wake up!"

He groaned again, twisted out of her hold. "No…Sasha…it's my fault…"

"Monsieur!" Julianne tried once again, gripping him stronger this time, squeezing his bony arms that felt surprisingly muscular.

"Please don't…don't touch me…I don't want to be touched."

"Forgive me, I'm just trying to…" she sighed, shaking him again.

One last whimper, then a deep gulp of air as he startled upright. His amber eyes darted wildly across the room, scanning for the threat he had been faced with in his nightmare.

"It's only me, Monsieur," she offered, hoping it would soothe him.

_Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth._

The more she observed Erik, diminished now to a frightened shell of his usual powerful self, the more she was inclined to agree with Raskolnikov. How much sadness did he have to bear in the past? How many terrible memories lay entrapped within those two phrases he had uttered?

Perhaps it was foolishness on her part or perhaps it was a testament to her humanity that had her reaching for his hand, trying to show him the compassion he had not shown her. He flinched away as if she had raised her hand to strike him, shifting his body as deep as he could into the other corner of the bed, while using one hand to press the mask tighter against his face.

"It's only me, Monsieur," she repeated the only sentence she had to offer.

Certain scars could not be healed by any warm sentiment, she knew, and she was not about to pretend she understood everything that he had been through. She, herself, had loathed those over-eager to offer empty words as if they were somehow powerful enough tools to build up the ruins surrounding her.

Julianne didn't move along with him or try to reach for his hand again. Instead she remained in the same position, her eyes averted, her knees stinging from the tumble she had taken moments ago. She listened to his heavy breathing that only slowly grew calmer, the only sound to fill the silence between them. She briefly thought of his need for utter quiet, wondered where moments like these fit in, realised with a sudden shock that she hadn't considered the fate of the opera house until now. And now that she had, she still could not allow her thoughts to linger because she was still helpless, still at his mercy.

"I'll make you some tea," she decided and left the room without awaiting an answer.

In order to remain understanding and kind, she needed to collect herself, making sure that the panic that had suddenly stolen into her heart would not overwhelm her. Thankfully, the curious silver urn posed enough of a conundrum to occupy her brain sufficiently, and the darkness that dominated the house did its own to complicate the matter. She opened parts of the urn that presented a handle or a knob, located water in one and the remnants of tea leaves in another, but still could not see how the bloody thing would be heated. Surely there had to be some way, since she had not seen Erik use a stove or any other appliance her domestic staff usually did.

"You need to light the coals first," he explained, his voice not more than a whisper.

She startled when he lit a torch nearby and she realised how close he had come without her noticing and, blushing, made room for him to demonstrate.

"You can fetch some tea leaves," he suggested next, pointing to the cabinet on which the cat had previously been sleeping. His yellow eyes avoided hers still.

Julianne nodded in acknowledgement and went to retrieve the leaves, discovering to her surprise that the little compartment was not only stacked full with tins of caviar but also with bread, cheese, ham, wine and brandy.

"Bring one of the spirits too," he instructed quietly and she obeyed, carrying both items back over to his side. Then, while he handled the samovar, she retrieved two teacups and saucers and placed them on the floor before the sofa.

"Perhaps a table would come in handy," she said conversationally and smiled to herself when her suggestion roused a chuckle from her worn-out captor.

After a moment or two of fresh silence he at last joined her, distributing the tea between the two cups and adding a generous amount of brandy to his.

"I always suspected that the French had no idea about the correct way of having one's tea," she teased gently, hoping to raise his spirits also.

"It's Russian, actually," he pointed out with the same subdued tone that moved her and saddened her, although she knew she should not have cared at all.

So she let silence fall once more, gave them the time to have their tea, hoping that the demons she could see dance in his eyes would disappear also. When he had finished, he set the cup down and reached for a strange package hidden between the folds of the sofa. He undid the string that was wrapped all around it and produced a box containing a syringe and something else she could not identify.

"Perhaps you would like to return to the torture chamber now," he suggested; an odd, frightening request if she'd ever heard one. Perplexed she remained where she was, her lack of movement forcing him to speak again. "Ironically, you will be safer there."

Growing impatient when she still did not follow his invitation, he pulled the half-unbuttoned shirt over his head, flexed his left arm once and then used the sleeves of the shirt as a tourniquet to make his veins protrude more clearly. Julianne was not well-versed in the underbelly of society, but she had heard enough to know that he was about to inject himself with one drug or another.

"Morphine…it helps me sleep," he explained apathetically, his voice a mundane sing-song of flat notes, "eventually. What comes before that even I cannot predict anymore."

His dark prophecy made her shiver and wrap her arms around her. She could not see how the room she had slept in could be used as a torture chamber, but she trusted his warning, had learned not to underestimate them. The more shocking it was then, of course, to consider a torture chamber less of a threat than the monster waiting outside, for she had no doubts that the drug would transform him into one.

Making her decision then and there, she rose to her feet and felt her way back into her room, knowing that he would be satisfied with her disappearance. Quickly – she knew she had mere seconds before he would inject the drug into his bloodstream – she retrieved the little book of poetry from the floor and returned to the sitting room.

"Do you have a death wish, you disrespectful little wench?" he bellowed.

She had braced herself for his anger and, upon drawing nearer, was more relieved to find that he hadn't had the time to inject himself yet.

"There are other means, Monsieur," she offered calmly, placing the book between them and using the samovar to pour him another cup of tea. She added a shot of brandy, just as she had seen him do before, then pressed the cup into his hands and thumbed through the poetry to find a piece she liked.

As she read she was aware of his intense gaze, the anger that burned within it, even though it was not powerful to manifest itself into words this time. She felt her breath hitch in her throat, the continued prickling of her knees, the racing of her heart. But despite all that, she kept reading, focusing her thoughts on every small letter she could make out in the light of that one torch.

She read until her voice turned hoarse and she had to reach for her own cup for a sip of tea. She read through her own exhaustion, even when her lids turned heavy and occasionally threatened to flutter close. She read until the air turned quite still, until breathing became easy once more. Only then did she dare to stop, chancing a glance at the man by her side.

The box of morphine lay discarded between them, as did his shirt. Erik had come to rest at an awkward angle on the sofa, his body curled up against the large, black cushions. His pale chest rose and fell steadily, his arms were wrapped around his body, but on the whole he looked at peace.

Sighing with relief, she set the book down and clumsily staggered to his bedroom to retrieve his blanket. She was terrified she might wake him as she settled it over his sleeping frame, but exhaustion had claimed him sufficiently not to rouse him. Reaching back to massage her shoulder, Julianne allowed the torch to keep burning and went back into the torture room where she curled up on the floor and allowed sleep to claim her also.


	17. Erik

Chapter 16:

Erik awoke the next morning from a deep slumber of utter fatigue. It had been a while since he had last needed to tire himself out for his sleep not to be broken by unwanted nightmares. Despite the tiredness that still resided in his bones, he felt oddly warm and comfortable, cosy even. What strange mood, what strange sensation. Had he died at last? His mouth curled into an ironic smile and a chuckle almost slipped past his lips. Then his eyes flew open, remembrance setting in at last.

Madame Doucet had witnessed it all, had seen him at his weakest. She could have ignored him, surely she could have, or used his disorientated state to her advantage. Yet she had made him tea like a dutiful servant and read to him like a child that needed soothing. Truthfully, he did not know how to feel about that. At times predictability really was more favourable, even if it came with the bitter aftertaste of rejection.

Casting the blanket aside that she must have also draped over him, he rose to his feet and went about feeding the cat. His thoughts made the swift and painful connection to Christine in the meantime, reminding him that she, too, had looked after him when he had been unwell. Perhaps it was simply the nature of women to dote on anything they considered feeble enough, he mused, yet when he caught sight of the little portrait of his mother on the mantelpiece another sarcastic chuckle escaped him. Of course there were always exceptions.

"Have you prepared some tea yet?"

Madame Doucet's voice was clear, devoid of the trepidation it had previously housed and that, too, confused him. Surely it would be more satisfying to have her quivering in fear, grovelling at his feet. Surely she would pose less of a threat if she received a reminder of who truly held the power. But he found he could not even hold eye contact.

"No," he explained, "I was just feeding Ayesha."

His gaze slid down to the floor where the feline was ravenously consuming her meal.

"Perhaps I could try my hand at the samovar then? If I am granted a second chance?"

He smiled ruefully at this unintentional reminder of his own history and strode past her, lighting all the torches that were mounted on the walls. "Perhaps you'll be able to see better now."

She offered a nervous smile in return and busied herself lighting and filling the strange apparatus.

"You will continue your work once you are done?"

It was a question, yet somehow he managed to make it sound like more of a command. After all, he couldn't allow this power balance to be completely tipped on its head.

"Yes, of course." Madame Doucet also seemed eager to avoid eye contact. "There's still much to be done." She took a seat on the sofa while they waited for the water to boil. "I found a rather beautiful bowl yesterday, containing Asian depictions?"

"Yes, I collected a great many things on my travels," he laid out absent-mindedly, staring at the samovar.

"It's beautiful and not beyond repair. Perhaps if you could find me an adhesive I'd be able to put it back together?"

Apparently she had found something else that needed fixing.

"Perhaps," he shrugged indifferently.

Her soft gasp took him by surprise and made him focus on her fully.

"Forgive me, I had expected you to be attached, I suppose. It might only be a bowl at face value but if you acquired it, like you said, on your travels, surely it must hold a lot of worth."

"Do you take me for a man of leisure, casually travelling to foreign countries, collecting trinkets along the way?" he asked scornfully.

She looked towards the samovar quickly but he could have sworn to have seen her roll her eyes first.

"I did not call them trinkets, Monsieur, please don't put words in my mouth. I am also not as ignorant as you'd like to believe I am, nor as vindictive. I have come to learn that you are not an ordinary man and, as such, was not as careless as to suggest you might have taken several grand vacations in your time. As a matter of fact, I was expressing an interest in your travels without wanting to appear too curious, since I know you are not fond of that particular attribute. And I was also hoping to remind you that while you might not have voluntarily ventured into the far corners of the world, you clearly found some of these objects valuable and remarkable enough to hold on to them and take them home."

She stopped talking, inhaled deeply and then stood up, straightening her spine. He knew that he ought to reprimand her for her tone of voice but could not bring himself to do so since he truly just found her amusing. Sitting there like a prim schoolmistress, lecturing him on the facts he had misconstrued.

When she had examined the tea and deemed it good enough, she poured them two cups and handed one to him. "The urge to break things is completely normal, I suppose, and there is no harm in doing so provided they're your own possessions. Just after Édouard had succumbed to his illness, I burned a number of letters he had written to me at the beginning of our relationship. I was convinced I could never bear to look at them again, the pain would simply be too great. But now that more than a year has passed, I wish desperately I would not have destroyed them. I don't think I will ever stop feeling the pain of his absence, but it was wrong to believe that something that could hurt me, was not also capable of reminding me of his love."

Erik's mind wandered to the countless items he had destroyed because they had reminded him too much of Christine. The portraits, the sheet music, the books he had read to her. It seemed unfathomable that he would ever acknowledge the things she had given him, that he'd ever stop feeling the emptiness of what might have been. And it felt wrong to think about this now, to invite Christine into the room between him and Madame Doucet. It felt foolish to think of her with anything but anger and hatred.

Then, just as Madame Doucet had opened her mouth to, no doubt, dole out some other pellet of wisdom, her stomach rumbled noisily, making her blush with embarrassment.

"I was wondering, Monsieur," she continued timidly, "if I might have some of the ham I spotted yesterday? I am rather sick of preserves and, if I'm honest, also in need of something of more substance."

His eyebrow quirked up beneath the mask and for a moment he studied her pensively in silence. Her skin was less patchy and red than it had been on the first day, yet it looked paler and gaunter, a side-effect of the lack of sunshine he had thought but now began to wonder if it was also due to a lack of nourishment. Guilt stirred in his stomach along with shame. Never fond of food himself, he had learned how desperately cruel it felt to be denied it nonetheless. It was not nearly as repulsive as being force-fed, yet both experiences went hand in hand and he did not wish for her to feel like that, no matter how much he had hated her in the past.

"Yes, it is yours to take," he answered simply. "Help yourself while I am gone and I will see if I can find something more filling as well while I am out."

He could feel her curious eyes on him as he quickly made his escape, washing himself and putting on one of the last dress shirts that remained. It really was time for him to check for news from Madame Giry and to give Moreau another reminder of his presence, lest the little man crumble after all.

He did not exchange another word with Madame Doucet when he emerged again, but directly strode towards his boat and rowed across the lake.

* * *

When he returned a little while later he was in a strange mood. The meeting with Moreau had been perfectly agreeable, dull even, since the man flinched dutifully when he heard his voice and hurriedly succumbed to all of his demands. Whether consciously aware of this or not, Erik's mind needed a challenge, a task that would protect him from the tediousness of boredom. Yet it was a fine line to walk; too much objection would signify defiance and he would not happily tolerate that either.

Box 5, on the other hand, had been completely empty, dusty even as if nobody had been granted access to it, as if nobody had taken care of it. There was no trace of Madame Giry, no matter how long he searched for her, but no dismissive response to his note either. Of course he could have sought Moreau out again, pressured him for the information he surely had to possess, yet Erik did not want him to think that he was anything but omniscient so that puzzle would have to wait for another day.

He strode into the sitting room, depositing more stolen food in the cabinet and more books onto the sofa.

"I could salvage a few more items, Erik, I thought perhaps you'd like to take a look?"

Her question was so light and ordinary that nothing struck him as strange at first. As a matter of fact, it felt so warm and familiar that a part of him longed not to destroy it with the question that begged to be asked. How did she know his name? How could she possibly know?

"Erik?" he echoed softly, a dangerous tone swinging within his voice.

"Oh, forgive me." She rose to her feet, brushing her hands off against the dark skirts of the dress that already looked chalky. She appeared as pale as she had done before but held his eye contact steadily, nothing betraying any possible nervousness. "I heard the man use it the other day? He bellowed it, as a matter of fact, so I assumed he was addressing you?"

His amber eyes narrowed suspiciously until he nodded and his shoulders relaxed. He had plenty of reason to doubt her still thanks to the meddling tendencies she had displayed previously, but hearing his name spoken so casually – not with fear, not with a silent plea, not in desperation – felt too remarkable to cast aside. It gave the illusion of ordinary companionship, something he was desperate enough to desire to willingly accept any deception. Deception was, after all, something he excelled in.

"Yes, the daroga has the tendency to be less than subtle," he remarked, stepping closer to her.

"Still, it was inappropriate of me to call you by your first name. I'm not quite certain how it happened, I suppose it just slipped out."

"It's acceptable since we are sharing the same space," he decided with an air of haughtiness that successfully disguised his true feelings, then added with a mischievous grin, "and we have known each other for quite some time now. Of course, it is only proper if you shared your name also."

He suppressed a chuckle when her eyebrows rose in surprise. It was obvious that she did not know whether he was being serious or merely toying with her.

"Julianne…Julianne Doucet," she offered carefully after a while, "though I am certain you must know so already, seeing as you found out where I live."

He laughed then, unable to contain himself. "I shall repeat myself only this one time: I needed to know for professional reasons and as such my focus also remained purely professional."

"Your definition of the word "professional" is rather strange, Erik," she responded light-heartedly and then bent down to present an item to him. "Would you like me to try and fix this or would you rather it be discarded?"

"Now this actually is a trinket. Something I picked up in Russia. It isn't worth your time," he shrugged and handed it back to her.

"Very well," she nodded and the reluctance in her eyes came and went quickly.

Then she crouched down and presented him with a second item, one that made his breath freeze somewhere in his chest.

"Surely this is too beautiful to be discarded?" she asked and he could feel her eyes bore into his.

Erik's hand trembled when he accepted the silver compass. Its shell with all the beautiful engravings was scratched and cracked but when he flipped it open, it still seemed to work.

"How very careless of me…"

His voice was soft, reverent almost as his fingers brushed over it in a caress. When he looked up, his hopeful eyes scanned the room as if they expected to find Giovanni standing there.

"It's scarred but beautiful," Julianne said carefully, placing her hand on his and closing his fingers around the compass, "keep it."

"He was a good man," Erik told her, dedication evident in his tone, "one of the few I have known. He gave this to me as if I was his son. I was nothing more than his apprentice."

He paused, wondering how she would react to these words that had to be meaningless to her.

"He hoped it would always help me find the right way."

Her smile was warm and unwavering and no sign of confusion was evident on her face.

"Let us have some tea then and perhaps you could tell me more about this remarkable man?"

To his surprise he found himself nodding and very carefully, his eyes did not dare leave the compass, he led her back to the sofa.


	18. The Face of the Monster

Chapter 17:

When Julianne emerged from her room the next day there was no trace of Erik. The house seemed empty and deserted and when no response came, even to her tentative calls, she assumed that he had gone to attend to what he called "business". Hesitantly, she entered his bedroom, took in the large bed, the broken desk and wobbly nightstand as well as his discarded clothes, and then slipped through to the bathroom of green marble that felt warm and alive. She tended to herself and then meandered back into the sitting room, helped herself to food and made herself comfortable on the sofa, tucking her legs away beneath her body which caused her knees to smart. She had tentatively examined the gash she had acquired as a result of her fall and although it, thankfully, wasn't deep it prickled and stung almost continuously where her skin had been torn off.

She sat like that for quite a while, straining her ears for any sound of the boat that would indicate Erik's return but there was only silence, briefly interrupted by light paws padding across the floor as Ayesha appeared, deciding to keep her company this time. It concerned her to realise how accustomed she'd grown to his presence; it almost felt as if months had passed rather than a mere handful of days. The house possessed life when he was in it, as opposed to the tomb and the ruins she now saw before her. Still, she preferred thinking about Erik in practical ways, what he did or did not do, that it was safer to have him within her sights than not knowing where he was and what he might be planning.

Yet those practicalities weren't the whole truth. She had not only grown accustomed to his company but also to him, perhaps she had even grown to like him somewhat. At times her thoughts wandered guiltily to the Vicomtesse's letter that she still carried at her heart, remembered the wistful fondness with which she had described her time with Erik. Only a few days ago she had called her mad for that, but now she understood. He could be positively charming and well-mannered whenever he wanted to be. He was a great conversationalist and knew how to tell the most adventurous, delightful stories. He had even demonstrated a patience and calm she had not expected, indulging her questions about his life in Italy and offering further details if necessary.

But there was the dangerous side still, as deceptively simple as it was to forget sometimes. He was a murderer, a blackmailer and a stalker. She repeated those three words in her head time and time again, hoping that they would ground her. She knew, somewhere in the recesses of her brain, that she valued his companionship because any form of it had been lacking in her life since Édouard's passing. No sneaky glances from her domestic staff, no pitying words, just a deep, surprising understanding of and genuine interest in one another, a routine that was as comfortable as it was predictable. But none of that justified a naiveté or purposeful forgetfulness of the other kind of acts he was obviously capable of. She could not simply forgive him or forget everything he had put her through, and yet she understood the Vicomtesse's feelings and her husband's protectiveness. There clearly was an allure to Erik that surpassed all reason.

The stillness was at last pierced by the sound of water washing up against stone that she had been waiting to hear since she had discovered his absence. She slipped her legs out from underneath her and sat up straighter, ready to greet him, accepting Ayesha's disgruntled meows as she unceremoniously slipped off her lap. But when he appeared, striding with determination into the sitting room, she could instantly tell that something had upset him. The usual unnerving calm that surrounded him was replaced by intimidating anger.

Had Monsieur Moreau let him down? Had he chosen to defy him, even? The thought alone was ludicrous. Yet she could not imagine what else might have happened.

"Your little plan is working out rather splendidly, wouldn't you say?" he hissed, throwing an envelope at her.

"I don't know what you mean," she frowned, but he refused to offer further explanations.

Instead, he began pacing up and down before her, like a wild animal steeling itself for the best moment to pounce. She did not like where this was going. Carefully, she slipped the note out of the opened envelope and as her eyes flew over the letters, her heart constricted.

"Now that you cannot pretend anymore, let me ask you again. Are you satisfied?"

The force of his voice drove her deeper into the sofa.

"She was an old woman, Erik, it's only natural she would retire."

But his eyes blazed dangerously and she knew she should not have approached it like this.

"This is _your_ doing, little wench!" he growled, taking big strides towards her.

Avoiding his eyes, she shoved the note back into the envelope which she placed next to her on the sofa. Then, she tilted her chin up defiantly and reciprocated the threatening eye contact.

"Madame Giry has served you well, Erik, and she has served you often enough. She never doubted you, always believed in the best of you because of the help you offered her daughter. But then she began seeing a darker side. The _Sûreté_ was here after the incident with Christine Daaé, did you know that? They discovered that the counterweight had not fallen by itself." The more she spoke, the more venomous her voice became. "That's when Madame Giry started to doubt you. But _still_ she helped you when you returned, believed you would not harm her even though she had betrayed you to me, even when that body was found did she not fear you."

"But then you spoke to her again," he intersected breathlessly, "you little viper with your cunning words, you put fear into her heart! She deserted me because of _you_!"

"Enough!" Julianne yelled, rising to her feet and staring up at his figure that still towered over her even though she was standing upright. "You know yourself what you are capable of. I heard you speak to the daroga, I heard the humour with which you then viewed your recent murder. I am no fool. That man, whoever he was, was killed to send a message to me."

"Yes, you and your meddling ways!" he interrupted angrily. "He was a merchant, a good man who had never betrayed me until _you_ entered my life. He trespassed! He expressed concern because my courier had been battered with questions by a certain, nosy woman!"

"Had I known that it would justify his murder, I would not have done it!"

She could feel tears stinging in her eyes and loathed herself for the emotions that always flowed so freely. She did not want him to mistake her tears for weakness when they were truly nothing more than a manifestation of her anger.

"It was _you_ who killed him, Madame Doucet, _you_ who drove Madame Giry away!"

A breathless silence engulfed them both but neither one was prepared to walk away just yet.

"Have you no heart?" she at last asked quietly. "Are you truly monstrous enough to commit these dreadful acts without a snippet of remorse?"

She did not have time to regret her words, for he was on her in a second. His chest pressed against hers, while his left arm snaked around her like a rope, bending her own arm upwards against her back. The pain was excruciating, knocked all air out of her lungs. It was as if her shoulder was slowly pivoted out of its socket.

"Monstrous, Madame?" His voice seemed to defile her, it was as ugly as she recalled it being the first time he had spoken to her. "Shall we see how truly monstrous I can be?"

She saw him lifting up his free hand and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow that never came.

"Look at me!" he bellowed and she flinched, her eyes automatically flying open again.

And there it was before her, his face, disfigured as she had assumed but so much worse than she could ever have imagined. Flesh that seemed to be decaying, yellow and sickly, sharp bones protruding everywhere and nothing but a gaping hole where his nose should have been. She wanted to be tactful but her eyes kept slipping over his features time and time again.

"Your actions by far surpass your face in ugliness, Monsieur," she managed quietly in the end, staring into the sunken sockets, into the amber eyes she knew could be soft and gentle also.

He growled, shrieked as if in pain and yanked his hand away from her arm. When he began to pace once more, she carefully lowered her aching arm, gingerly rolled her shoulder to gauge the damage. Thankfully, it only seemed to be sore but not injured.

"You women are all the same," Erik growled suddenly, making her head snap sharply in his direction, "you try to convince me that the distortion of my face is bearable, then you stab me in the back. Why do you expect me to conduct myself like a true gentleman when I am being denied companionship at every turn? You clip my only outreach to the outside world. You put fear in the heart of the only woman who ever trusted me. Yet you expect me to treat you with courtesy?"

Her heart constricted with pity for him, but at the same time, as she looked into his half-crazed eyes, she also knew that he would be capable of anything and that she was in great danger.

" _She_ betrayed me, Julianne, _she_ did," he was approaching her with rapid steps, "yet when _she_ kissed me I had to let her go. Would you not call that courteous? I wished her well, her and the Vicomte, but in my misery I begged her for one last favour. An invitation to their wedding, hand-delivered. Oh, I would not have attended, of course," he chuckled and she was mortified to see tears running down his waxen cheeks, "I would have been quite dead at that point. But _she_ did not return, Julianne…" She flinched when he reached for her hand and the movement was so sudden that she cried out in pain. " _She_ betrayed me again!" He dragged her forward against his chest. "And if you can be monstrous, so can I!"

A thousand words were swarming around in her mind but not a single one made it past her lips. There was no point reasoning with insanity.

"If you had only stayed away, Madame Doucet, stayed far away in your little box everything would have been altered to my will. Nobody would have left and nobody would have died."

"An opera house is just a shell without music," she whispered, her chapped lips were trembling against each other.

"A shell?"

His twisted lips silently echoed her words. Then he tipped his head back and let out a laugh that made her skin crawl. It was a sound she would never forget, filled with utter grief and desperation.

"A shell indeed," he then whispered to himself, "but at least it continues to stand. No, I did what I had to. _You_ killed the merchant!"

How utterly unhinged he was.

"I did what I had to do to survive!" she screamed, her panic finding a body in that one sound. "I did what I had to do to protect this Opera. I gave you a chance, I reasoned with you, I made you offers that were ludicrous in light of what you were asking. So don't you dare blame all this on me, don't you dare overlook my efforts, Édouard!"

The silence crashed around them, thundered in their ears while slowly Julianne's face flushed. That one name seemed to put an entire gulf between them, it laid bare far too much of the sadness and anger in her heart, and the strange mixture of thoughts she'd been having for some time now. It was surprising enough for Erik to loosen his grip on her, and embarrassing enough to make her flee into her room where she succumbed to the tears that seemed powerful enough to drown her.


	19. Kinship

Chapter 18:

Her thoughts formed a dark mass inside her head, one that continuously coiled around itself, allowing no space for anything else. The confusion was suffocating, spewing out words that she did not wish to hear. Where had the old simplicity gone, the one she had cursed at times? Now all she could see was loss; loss and the ambivalent feelings she harboured for Erik.

What did it say about her character to feel comfortable with a man of such violent temper? Perhaps it meant that she did not value her life as much as she had thought. Perhaps it meant that she was quite mad herself. Or perhaps it simply meant that she was lonely and able to appreciate the company of a man who never once inquired about Édouard.

What an awful thing to feel. Should she not have been relishing reminders of her life with her husband? Was she not the one who had told Erik about her regrets, regrets involving a lack of reminders of Édouard's love? What a dreadful fraud she was.

Fresh tears emerged, left salty stains on her cheeks and then dripped onto the floor beneath her. Darkness greeted her when she opened her eyes, yet it wasn't as frightening as the darkness inside her head. This room had truly become a torture chamber. She tried to breathe deeply, to let her whole chest expand as far as it could, but her body was shaking too badly.

Anger welled up when the violin began to sing again. It was a different tune yet she felt that he was mocking her, taunting her when she was vulnerable. But the anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. Perhaps there was no space for it either. She did not understand how he could play while he claimed to want silence. The drive to find some answers pushed her forward, gave her the strength to feel her way towards the door once more.

There was no torch to light the way, only the shadow that seemed to shift in the distance, the gleam of yellow eyes. Not for the first time she wondered, if Erik had grown so accustomed to the dark that he had only lit the torches for her benefit.

"Madame Doucet."

His voice was a low invitation, it was measured and cautious yet strangely welcoming.

"I don't understand…"

Hers came in a whisper, one that betrayed her desperation, that made audible the tears on her face, the lump in the throat.

"You will have to be more specific."

She sank down on the sofa, exhausted, her arms wrapped around her. "Stop mocking me."

It was not a plea, despite the quietness of her voice.

"You cannot bear to hear music because of Christine Daaé. You encounter her in every note, I can see that now."

She thought about Édouard, thought about how often he had helped guide her throughout this ordeal. She thought about her own reflection and how often she found him in it. Her cheek that he had used to caress, her hair that he had preferred loose and soft, her waistline that he had traced with all the expertise of a true Casanova. Perhaps Erik's ghost haunted him just as much.

"It's agonising, draining and at times you only want it to stop, perhaps even your own heartbeat to stop."

Erik remained silent, did not comment or respond, but his eyes were resting on her almost solemnly, as if he could not bring himself to look away.

"But surely," her desperation got the better of her, crashed over her lips uninvited, "surely you must find her, too, in the song of your violin. Why do you kill to silence the opera house, then fill it with your own music?"

His lids fluttered, fell closed for a brief second and when they opened again, she found herself staring into the abyss of his grief. Her hand found her heart, pressed against it and felt the soft pressure of the mask and the letters in return.

"Because music…" he sounded raw, struggled to find the right words. "I _am_ music. Music can be anything you want it to be and it accepts you, it warms you, it pains you. It is the very cornerstone of our humanity, the soundtrack of life itself. Sometimes _she_ beckons me and I must play, I cannot disobey. It is nothing but ugliness, it's like a punishment for everything I have done."

She listened closely, but nonetheless felt lost in the web of his words.

"It's a kind of physical pain," he continued, slowly lowering the violin and she remembered the gash in his palm, wondered if he had somehow harmed himself while playing, "one that soothes the emotional pain for a little while at least. But I can stop when I am fatigued, I can create, destroy and rest. Yet when the Opera itself sings there is no place to hide. There are only memories, dark and forbidden or hopeful and light, all utterly destructive in their power. I cannot make it stop, I cannot block it out. I am helpless and there is no relief, no matter how short-lived."

"You taught her to sing," Julianne stated evenly while her mind tried to unravel what he had presented her with. "You gave her her voice?"

Her eyes slid to where she knew the broken pipes of an organ to be.

"No," he sighed, "I simply helped her mould it. She possessed a great instrument, what she needed was guidance."

"But you loved her."

Perhaps she was being reckless, but she knew that some of the weight would only be lifted if she understood.

"How could I not? She was beauty itself and I am ugliness personified. How could one not be drawn to the other?"

He continued standing there, his violin in front of his chest like a shield, yet she felt that he had knelt down before her, a pleading, desperate man.

"It is not that simple, Erik," she sighed, "beauty fades with age, it withers. One can try to maintain it, of course, with make-up and powder and creams, yet in the end it is nothing more than a mask either. Beauty is not continuous, Erik, and neither is ugliness. There are shades to both of them. Giovanni taught you about the beauty in your own heart, that's what you told me, and by the same token, you despise Christine Daaé because she exposed her ugliness at times, just as I despise Édouard. Perhaps that's alright?"

She handed the question to him, could not bear to hold it herself, too guilty was her conscience for having admitted it.

"Anger, you mean?" he hummed and she drew up her shoulders.

"Sadness is static, it holds us frozen within one moment, paralyses us from progressing. Anger is energy, its motion, it creates action. Perhaps the right kind of anger can help us."

He nodded slowly and lowered the violin.

"I know that it does not make sense," he granted, "to be desperate for silence yet create sound oneself. But it helps to play, it gives the illusion of control even though I cannot disobey its call when it beckons me to play."

Julianne thought back to _Robert le Diable_ and the countless other times when her grief had simply overwhelmed her. It was easy feeling powerless to it. Perhaps it was only natural that a man like Erik, driven to live underground, desperately fought for any shred of control he could have. And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that her understanding would one day spell her end.

"I did not mean to hurt you." The words were spoken softly and he had bowed his head in shame. "I have already twisted you quite enough, it is a miracle you haven't perished down here. Women need sunlight and normalcy…"

He seemed deep in thought, as if the notion he had just laid out was peculiar to him. She wanted to laugh, but she couldn't deny that his statement loosened something in her chest. It took away some of the fear she had carried with her since she'd been abducted. He would not kill her.

"No man belongs in darkness such as this, Erik," she offered and extended her hand to his.

The bow shook when flesh enveloped flesh.

"Christine pitied me, too."

All at once he appeared to have shrunk before her eyes, seemed to have grown small and uncertain.

"I do not think I pity you," she hummed, brushing over the back of his hand with her thumb, "you are not feeble or as helpless as you might feel. But I have compassion for you, as did Christine. I can only imagine what kind of horrors life has shown you."

She was not aware of the magnitude of the situation then, the fact that she was holding the torn-down ruins of a man in her hand. All she hoped to do was show him kindness, the kind that was unwavering and perhaps foolish in the face of hardship and violence, the kind that would grow and develop and enable him to change.

They remained like that for a long time until the threatening darkness softened around them. She wondered, fleetingly, if someone had ever held his hand, if he had ever experienced peace like this. She wasn't certain that she had, either.


	20. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! This denotes the end of Part 1. Part 2 will be posted soon.

Chapter 19:

Erik had spent many sleepless nights in his lifetime, but he could not recall one quite like this. He had reluctantly shared his tent before or less reluctantly his bed with a cat or a dog, but neither experience had been as peaceful as this. As the silence continued, he had been afraid at first to put down his violin, lest Julianne would not offer her hand again, but then she had suggested it herself and he'd have looked a fool, had he insisted that remaining upright was comfortable enough. The lack of touch – even for those brief seconds – had been dreadful though more bearable than the loss of Christine's kiss. Nonetheless, he contained his need until he had settled down on the sofa and Julianne offered her hand again.

He knew they had started to talk once more but the details escaped him now. After a while, she had fallen asleep. He had made certain that her body was comfortable but kept holding her hand, watching over her. He could not bring himself to sever the contact just yet. In the morning she would be gone, he knew that now, and it was paramount that he savoured the last few moments. Perhaps, perhaps if he handled this like a gentleman, she would come to see him again of her own free will.

When his pocket watch informed him that a new day had begun, he had reluctantly and with very great care released her hand and straightened himself. Then, he had hurriedly written two notes – a simple one to Moreau, commanding him to pass the enclosed note on to his messenger, and a second one to Madame Doucet's staff, informing them of her return that day. Both letters in hand he had quietly made his way up to the surface, positioned them in the manager's office and then returned. He would not trust the little man with handling his personal business, too great was the risk of being discovered, but a simple note was safe enough in his clumsy hands.

When he entered his house again, Julianne was still asleep and after much contemplation he gingerly slipped his hand into hers once more. Another long while passed until she finally opened her eyes. She chuckled when she realised her surroundings.

"You should have woken me! You can't possibly have been comfortable."

Her hand went up to pat down her hair.

"I would like to take you back today," he voiced in return, sitting up straighter and resting his hands in his lap.

"Take me back where?" she chuckled but then realisation dawned on her. "You are letting me go?"

The relief in her voice stung although he had been preparing himself for it.

"Yes," he replied quietly, "I have realised that my past actions have been anything but appropriate and I was hoping that we might reach a new understanding?"

"Oh?" she nodded curiously and shifted closer towards him once more.

"The opera house cannot be silent, as much as it pains me," he offered hesitantly, "but perhaps you would consider consulting me on the pieces you plan to perform. Some discomfort might be avoided this way, perhaps, as well as some mediocrity."

"You would lend your expertise to the Opera?" she questioned; her face was scrunched in deep thought though the grin that was tugging at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

"Yes," he inclined his head.

"And I suppose in return you expect box 5 and 20,000 francs?"

"Naturally," he was grinning also.

It was still an outrageous demand and he could see annoyance battling with humour on her face but he doubted that she'd dare to argue.

"I shall accept your proposition for now. But should I feel that you do not meet your end of the deal, I will be forced to alter your payment."

"Trust me, Madame, I will not disappoint you."

"Very well," she chuckled and it sounded a little bit like hope, "I better go and wash myself then or Babette will have a fright."

He nodded slowly and shifted out of her way, conveniently avoiding eye contact also since he feared it would betray his reluctance. It still went against his instincts to set someone free and put his trust in them. It was difficult handing over control and relying on another person to repay him in kind. But this was the least he could do for her, after everything he had put her through and after all the kindness she had shown him nonetheless.

He watched her disappear into his room, listened to the whisper of fabric once more and then the sloshing of water.

"What about my dress, Erik?" she called and that's when he remembered the garment that was still discarded on the floor.

She could not be allowed to wear it as it would raise too many questions, but her current one would not do either, seeing as it was just as dirty from where she had been kneeling in the dust.

"I'll find you another one," he called in return and then rose to his feet.

Tentatively, he entered his bedroom, keeping his eyes fixed on his bed. When he had first stolen from the Opera's atelier he had brought down several dresses with him, now he'd only have to find them. His bed had become a messy treasure trove of items and he vowed then and there to build new furniture again. It just wouldn't do to live like that. At last, he managed to disentangle a dress from the sheets, held it up into the air to smooth it out with his free hand and then hesitantly approached the door leading into the bathroom.

Julianne had hung up her old dress over the edge of the door and he figured that she'd find the new one easier if he positioned it there as well. He had just reached for the old dress when something white caught his attention. At first he attributed it to the dust that had settled on other parts of the garment also, but then he realised that it had a shape, a shape that was all too familiar. Sound was thudding in his ears and something twisted his stomach. This feeling, too, was dreadfully familiar. Perhaps he had underestimated her curiosity, perhaps he should not have allowed her to filter through his personal belongings.

His fingers trembled when they grazed the mask, the faint motion sending something else tumbling out and onto the ground. They seemed to have been hidden inside the mask, were crinkled and folded multiple times. The replacement dress hung loosely in the crook of his arm as he bent down to retrieve the envelopes. He turned them over in his hand, felt cold when he saw the broken de Chagny seal. He fingered the letters, fumbled, craved to tear them apart. His eyes slid back up to Julianne's dress that had contained the secret, stared at it as if his anger could somehow burn it. Then he parted the envelope and drew out the first letter.

_Madame Doucet,_

_It is with great regret that I must inform you not to try and reach out to my wife again. It is upsetting to me to see that those she holds dear have so carelessly betrayed her whereabouts to an unknown third party. If you truly are dealing with the man who calls himself the "Opera Ghost", I furthermore advise you to be careful. He is nothing but a heinous monster and you'd do better to keep your distance._

_Raoul de Chagny_

Rage was running through his veins, muting all other sounds around him. Numbly, his fingers opened the other envelope and fished out the second letter. He could barely focus on the words in front of him, too full was his head with the words the Vicomte had written. But the pity he found in _her_ letter stung far worse; in the end he had been nothing more than a poor, miserable monster to her, too.

_I fear I'd be doing my loving husband, as well as my sweet son, a great injustice._

An ugly beast roared inside his chest, longed to tear everything apart once more. Of course they had not hesitated to have children. _Their_ life had not ended after this so-called ordeal.

But she should have known better, Madame Doucet, known better than to awaken old demons. She should have offered up her own misdeeds at least, handed this piece of treachery to him. It all made sense now, her sudden use of his name, her insight into Christine's feelings, the guilt that must have compelled her to hold his hand. The world was crumbling around him, everything seemed to be shaking and yet his house remained ordinary and still before him.

She had wanted to deceive him, just as Christine had done. Had thought it easy to take advantage of a lonely, old monster. But she would pay, he'd make certain of that.

* * *

Julianne's mind was still foggy from sleep and hazily trying to make sense of Erik's sudden decision. She had hoped before falling asleep, that this night would change something between them, would make them start over again, perhaps, but she had not anticipated something so drastic. The cold water washed against her and the marble walls surrounding her, it made her shiver but also helped focus her thoughts.

She was relieved to be allowed to go home but secretly also pleased that he had offered his services to the opera house. Not only could she use the help if she wanted to run the business without Moreau's input, but she also liked the idea of keeping Erik in her life somehow. The company of someone who understood the temperamental nature of grief was a gift.

She dried herself with one of his towels, smoothed out her hair with an ornamental brush and then turned back towards the door where she had hung up her dress. She pried the mask and the letters loose from the wires that kept them hidden and then peered into his bedroom to see if he had found her a replacement dress. Once she spotted it, put it on and concealed the items again, she emerged in the sitting room.

Erik had his back to her, his arms were stiffly folded behind it and he was wearing his gloves once more.

"Thank you," she offered and when he did not respond she glanced around the room for something else to say, "and thank you for not burning my dress."

The silence swallowed up her nervous chuckle.

"I shall have it cleaned for you and delivered to your house." He turned at last, mechanically, his eyes icy and cold. "You can tell your staff you had a little mishap."

"I will," she inclined her head and chuckled uneasily once again.

Why this sudden change? What had come over him?

"Come, come, now, Madame, you've wasted quite enough of my time already."

He was reaching for his cloak, straightening his hat, but she felt his words as if he had slapped her in the face. She did not know why it mattered and really it shouldn't have, but the unfairness of the situation truly upset her. How dare he speak of wasted time when it had been him holding her prisoner? She trudged after him, dutifully keeping her eyes fixed to the ground, not even the gentle sway of the boat could calm her this time.

Had she been foolish enough to believe that her kindness could change him? Had she wasted her time on a man who was nothing but ungrateful?

Their steps echoed around them as they climbed up the stairs. Then the cavern made way to a wood panelled chamber that was small and compressed and required Erik to hunch over. He did not look at her or speak to her again, guided her wordlessly up a ramp and into another small corridor of stone.

"Your luggage, Madame," he informed her icily and pressed her heavy baggage into her hand.

She had forgotten all about it when he had abducted her.

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes downcast.

She heard him touch something and then an opening bared itself before her, brought so much light flooding in that she needed to squeeze her eyes shut. In this moment of disorientation, his hand wrapped itself around her neck.

"I have made a slight alteration to our deal, Madame Doucet. From now on you shall do precisely as you're told. Once a week I shall send for you and you will not hesitate to seek me out in box 5. We will attend to business and you will follow my demands to the letter. If I tell you to put on a certain opera you will agree, if I tell you to cancel performances you will comply. Should you fail to appear or follow my demands, I will be forced to kill those dear to you, starting with that insufferably nosy maid of yours. Have we come to an agreement?"

She nodded slowly, opening her eyes in search of the man she'd thought she'd somewhat known.

"Very well," he growled and pushed her into the office.

Almost automatically she lifted her suitcase and made her way out of the building and to a nearby brougham. The light was still stinging in her eyes and the sounds seemed to overwhelm her senses. She even struggled informing the driver of her address.

Had Christine Daaé felt this out of place when she had emerged from Erik's strange netherworld?

Erik, the opera ghost, the monster, the man, the never-ending, infuriating conundrum. Had he truly shown her his real face or had it been nothing but another mask? Had she been so naïve to believe they had got closer? And if they had, why did his actions feel like such a betrayal?

Outside the window, Paris slipped by unseen. The busy boulevards disappeared, making room for smaller alleys and larger gardens. Once back at the _Rue de Vaugirard_ , the driver helped her out of the carriage and accepted her orders to wait outside. She shrank into the house, tasked Alexandre with paying the driver and then slowly made her way up the creaky old stairs.

"Madame?" Babette who was waiting for her on the next floor greeted her.

She looked anxious, twisted her hands a lot and when Julianne caught sight of her reflection she really could not fault the woman. She looked pale and unwell, the black dress Erik had fetched for her drooping off her thin frame. Thankfully, there weren't any bruises on her neck yet or she would no doubt have caused another scandal.

"Is everything alright, Babette?" she asked with a tired smile, setting down her baggage.

"Yes, it's just…" she paused, chewing on her bottom lip, "oh I do hope you'll forgive me. He's been coming every day and refused to be turned away today. He said you'd be arriving soon. God only knows how he found out."

Julianne frowned, her sluggish brain struggled to understand what was going on now. Her body ached worse than before and she only really wanted to sleep.

"Who is it?" she sighed.

"A strange little man, he is awaiting you in the sitting room, Madame."

Nodding to herself, Julianne strode into the room, eager to have this odd encounter over and done with. Yet something about the man made her slow down. His dark skin stood in contrast to his white hair and neatly trimmed beard. His crisp suit clashed with the well-worn hat he swept into his hands by a way of greeting. Yet the kind jade eyes that twinkled behind a pair of glasses instantly inspired trust. And just before he opened his mouth to introduce himself she realised who he had to be.

"I do apologise for inviting myself into your home, Madame Doucet," he proceeded formally, his French betraying an endearing accent, "but when I heard you would be returning today, I had to convince myself of your welfare."

"Thank you," she replied, gesturing for him to be seated once more while she remained standing, "I hope you have been offered refreshments?"

"Your staff is very hospitable," he smiled.

They both knew this was somewhat of a lie since Babette's discomfort could not have been more obvious.

"I have also come to offer an apology. You see, I did notice you lying in the torture chamber in Erik's house."

A sense of foreboding suddenly overcame her, as if it was best not to approach this subject at all. Glancing over her shoulder, she hurriedly closed the doors behind them.

"I had prayed time and time again that he would not go any further than he had already done, but Erik appears to be beyond help. Nonetheless, it would have been the right thing to help you, to free you but I know how skilful Erik can be with his blasted Punjab lasso and I did not wish to endanger you further."

She inclined her head, cautiously taking in his words.

"Did he harm you otherwise?" the daroga pressed on.

"No…" The little word squeezed its way past her lips as Erik's threat rang through her mind. He would kill everyone she had left and she would not be able to live with that. "As a matter of fact I rather enjoyed my time with him. It is true that his manners could use some refinement at times but on the whole he's a fascinating man, a natural entertainer." The smile was making her muscles ache. "I am actually thinking about visiting him again. He promised to tell me more about his travels and, truthfully, it is a great relief to have a friend away from the eyes of the masses."

"So in the end he did not hold you against your will? You would spend your time with him voluntarily?"

"We have reached an agreement, yes." She smiled and nodded happily.

To her surprise the daroga began to pale, looked as if he was suddenly feeling rather unwell. The hands that had been squeezing his hat now did so frantically and fear was so prominent in his eyes that she almost regretted her lie.

"Forgive me, Madame," he whispered, "but I must take my leave now. It seems I have made a dreadful mistake. Perhaps…perhaps it is not too late, perhaps it can still be rectified."

And without another word or another glance, he hurried past her and down the stairs. For a moment, only Julianne remained behind in the dimly lit room of the _Rue de Vaugirard_ , her thoughts filled with ghosts and questions, her future bleak and her relationship with Erik destined to begin again where it had started months ago.


End file.
